In the Realms of the Opopanax
by opopanax
Summary: My own collection of one shots and partial ideas. Many have already been published; this is just a place to keep them all. Also, most of the writing in here is terrible. Beware.
1. Chapter 1

The Boy Who Died

By Opopanax

It was an average, normal, ordinary day in Surrey. The Dursleys of Number Four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. The only blot on their nice ordinary existence was their freakish nephew, a Harry Potter, the offspring of Petunia's sister, Lily. Harry was five years old when he was finally told his name was actually Harry, and not freak or boy. And they only told him that because he had to go to school. The Dursleys, even though they were perfectly normal, by their reckoning anyway, couldn't hide the fact that somebody else lived with them, since they made Harry do all the chores in and out of the house since the age of three.

So, one bright September morning, Harry and his cousin Dudley were bundled into Vernon Dursley's car to go to the Little Whinging primary school. Dudley was wearing a crisp uniform that made him look like a big in pants, while Harry was wearing a shapeless old pair of jeans and a stained and ripped t-shirt that used to belong to Dudley and was at least three sizes too big for him. He was wearing taped together glasses that hid his green eyes from view, and he hadn't been allowed to take a bath for three days. Freaks like him didn't deserve such things as showers, after all.

As the car pulled up to the front gates of the school, Vernon yanked Harry aside by one ear and hissed at him: "You behave yourself, boy, or you will be locked in that cupboard for a week, school or no school, do we understand each other?"

"Yessir," Harry muttered. He kept his eyes downcast, but if Vernon had seen them, they might've given him pause. A bright fire of hatred was burning in Harry's eyes, a thirst for vengeance warmed his heart and mind. He would make them pay for this treatment one day.

Harry knew this horrid life wasn't normal at all. He had watched surreptitiously the families on Privet Drive, showering their children with love and attention, praising them for things done well and nursing their childhood injuries. Harry himself was beaten, starved, worked like a slave, and kept in a cupboard under the stairs. One day, he vowed in his childish way, one day they will pay for this.

# # #

Albert Yaxley had fallen on hard times. Ever since the downfall of the Dark Lord five years ago, things had been hard. He had managed to escape conviction by liberal dispensation of galleons and a plead of the Imperius Curse, but still he was viewed with suspicion. He didn't have as many galleons to throw around as did someone like Lucius Malfoy, so he couldn't get in the good graces of the higher ups at the Ministry.

Yaxley eventually had given up trying to find a well-connected job and had since turned, much to his disgust, to the Muggle world to find employment. He was now a garbage man, which was a far cry from Junior Unspeakable.

As he piloted his truck through the town of Little Whinging, Surrey, Yaxley reminisced about the good old days of terror and mayhem. He couldn't believe that the Dark Lord had fallen to a single infant. Things had been going so well; they were within a hair's breadth of taking over the ministry, Millicent Bagnold was on the ropes. Then Harry Potter had thwarted the Dark Lord when Pettigrew had given them the secret of the Potter's location.

Yaxley didn't know why the Dark Lord went after the Potters. Like most, he just assumed that he did it because the family, James Potter's grandfather and then James Potter himself, had been a thorn in his side since his coming out in '72. Yaxley himself didn't enter the Death Eaters until '78, so he didn't know all the back story, but he heard from gossip among the ranks that the Dark Lord had gone after James Potter's grandparents because they had blocked a great many laws in the Wizengamot that would've benefited Purebloods everywhere. There were vague rumors of a prophecy, but Yaxley, and many other Death Eaters, didn't put much stock in such things. But none of them were brave or stupid enough to question the Dark Lord about it.

Either way, when Yaxley had read about the fall of the Dark Lord on November First 1981, and further, that Albus Dumbledore had named Harry Potter as his vanquisher, he had been stunned. He had immediately contacted Lucius Malfoy for advice. Lucius had told him to turn himself in-far better to throw yourself on the mercy of the DMLE than to be caught involuntarily. Yaxley had thought about doing so, but since Barty Crouch was in charge of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and since he was the one to license the aurors to start using Unforgivables against the Death Eaters, he hadn't. By the time he was caught, Crouch was no longer in charge of the DMLE and Yaxley had been able to plead the Imperius Curse.

What floored him more than anything was the picture of Harry Potter, as an infant, that appeared in the paper on November First. Named the Boy-Who-Lived, it told of how he had survived the Killing Curse with nothing more than a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. Who, Yaxley had thought incredulously, would be stupid enough to print that, knowing it would paint a big target on the boy's back? It was unbelievably stupid, he thought.

Now, five years later, Albert Yaxley, unable to find work in the Wizarding World due to the stigma of having been a suspected follower of the Dark Lord, was driving a garbage truck in Surrey. He was passing the primary school in the morning, heading back to the Public Works Department, when he caught a flash of a very familiar face.

Pulling to the side of the road about four yards beyond the school gate, Yaxley got out of the truck and pretended to fiddle with the tires on the right side. He watched a huge man grab a small boy by the ear and whisper something to him. He caught a flash of messy black hair and green eyes hidden behind glasses. It was Harry Potter, Yaxley was sure. He became even more certain when the boy armed some of the hair out of his eyes and he caught a flash of the lightning scar. Definitely the Boy-Who_lived, Yaxley thought, sneering to himself.

Since Yaxley was in the Muggle world, he carried a pistol with him. It was a Colt Anaaconda, enchanted with a Notice me Not charm, so the British police wouldn't ask any inconvenient questions about it. British laws were particularly tough on people who had firearms. He was overly paranoid and didn't want to get dragged in for using magic to defend himself, should he be mugged. All that was needed was one small infraction and the new head of DMLE, Amelia Bones, would have him carted off to Azkaban faster than you could say Imperius Curse.

So, he got casually back into the truck, pulled the big .45 out of the glove compartment, leaned out the window and shot little Harry Potter in the head, and drove away before anybody spotted him. It was, after all, pretty dumb to print the picture of a boy who was thought to have defeated the most dangerous dark lord in centuries in the paper, where anyone could read about it.

AN: I base this story on a couple of things. In chapter 2 of HP&PS it's mentioned that Harry meets a bunch of wierd characters on the street who seem to know him. And in, uh, chapter six I think it is, Tom the barman knows who he is right away. And everybody knows HP has a scar on his forehead.


	2. That Feeling

THAT FEELING, YOU CAN ONLY SAY IT IN FRENCH

align-"center"By Opopanax

It was a nice, normal ordinary July day in the city of London. On a rather grim looking street lined with decrepit buildings with overflowing trashbags in front of them, an extraordinary figured popped into existence. This figure was dressed in a garish suit of cut velvet, with a purple tie and high buckled boots. A Long mane of flowing silver hair and beard, topped with half-moon spectacles completed his ensemble. Had anyone bothered to tell him, he would've been informed that his style of dress went out of date about a hundred years ago. It is doubtful that he would've changed, however; he most likely would've just chuckled and twinkled indulgently at his informer and sent them on their way with a Lemon Drop.

This man's name was Albus Dumbledore. As he strode purposefully down this grim street, his thoughts were already uneasy. He seemed to recall making a similar trip like this in 1937. But surely, that orphanage was long gone by now. Yes, it most certainly was. Had to be.

Albus Dumbledore was on the trail of one Harry James Potter. After having paid a visit to Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, upon receiving notice from his deputy headmistress Minerva McGonagall that Potter hadn't answered his letter, he found himself shocked and apalled. It turned out that Vernon and Petunia Dursley had not followed the instructions he had left them in the letter that was tucked into young Harry's Blanket the night he was placed in their care. They had, in fact, dumped him straight in a London orphanage, and not given him a single thought. He had lived there for the past ten years, unprotected from anyone seeking to do him harm. Dumbledore had paled and felt slightly sick. This was all his falt. If he had bothered to check on young Harry, if he had forced Vernon and Petunia to follow his instructions... if if if.

Oh well, too late to worry now, he supposed.

"We don't want a useless freak like him contaminating our nice normal home," Vernon sneered at Dumbledore before slamming the door in his face.

Now, having plucked the name of the orphanage from Vernon's mind via Legilimency, Dumbledore was striding down the street, feeling very apprehensive. That feeling continued to grow as the orphanage came into sight..

Dumbledore walked down a small side street and passed through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather austere, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing a flowered apron, under which a t-shirt bearing the letters ACDC was visible.

"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore. "I have an appointment with a Mrs. Stine, who I believe is the matron here?"

"Er," said the girl, taking in Dumbledore's rather eccentric appearance. "Yeah, just a sec ... Mrs. Stine!" she bellowed over her shoulder, before beckoning Dumbledore to come in and scampering off into the dim interior of the building.

Dumbledore stepped in smartly and closed the door behind him. Despite his twinkling eyes and half smile, That feeling, that feeling of having lived through this once before, was growing stronger.

The interior of the building was just as austere as the outside. On the right hand side a wooden staircase led to the upper stories. A couple of grimy paintings hung on the opposite wall. Directly in front of Dumbledore was another set of swinging doors, presumably leading to ktichens and administrative offices. The whole place looked clean and well-kept, but this was undoubtedly not a fun place to grow up.

After a moment, a harassed looking woman wearing another flowered apron came scurrying into sight from the stairs. She had the pinched face of someone with too many things to do and not enough time to do them in, and she walked with a slight limp. Thin gray hair straggled from under a kerchief, and she was prattling to noone in particular.

"... spilled a whole fifty pound sack of flour all over the floor and now Andrew's got food poisoning, vomiting all over his sheets-"

And then she came to a skidding halt, having spotted Dumbledore. Her mouth fell open and she looked as though a rhinoceros had jus appeared on the dinner table.

"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore, holding out his hand.

Mrs. Stine just gaped at him.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today."

"Er, yes," Mrs. Stine replied, apparently deciding that Dumbledore wasn't an hallucination. "yes-well, yes. Perhaps you'd better come into my office."

"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed, but inwardly, a cold wind was blowing.

Mrs. Stine led him into a cluttered room that appeared to be a combined parlor and sitting room. The furniture was old, mismatched and worn, and the room smelled faintly of cabbage. Gesturing Dumbledore to a rickety chair, Mrs. Stine settled behind a battered metal office desk and eyed him warily.

"I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Harry Potter and arrangements for his future," said Dumbledore, settling on the chair and steepling his fingers in front of his chin.

"Are you a member of his family, then?" asked Mrs. Stine. "'Cause he came here rather mysteriously, you know.

"Did he now?" Dumbledore said.

"Yes, very odd indeed. Like something out of a storybook. We found him on the front step in the morning on November second, ten years ago. Blue from cold, he was, the poor thing. He had a letter that said his name was Harry James Potter, but that's all."

"Interesting," Dumbledore murmured, before shaking himself out of his dark self-castigating thoughts. "As it happens, I am not a member of his family, but a teacher. I have come to offer Harry a place at my school."

"What school's this?"

"It is called Hogwarts," said Dumbledore.

"And how come you're interested in Harry?"

"We believe he has qualities we are looking for."

"You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done, he's never been entered for one."

"His name's been down in our records since birth."

"Who registered him? His parents?"

Dumbledore sighed inwardly. This woman was too smart. Discretely pulling his wand, he placed a mild Confundus charm on a perfectly blank piece of paper. "I believe this will make everything clear," he said, handing it across the desk.

Mrs. Stine's eyes slid briefly out of focus as she stared at the piece of paper for a moment. "This all seems in order," she said placidly. Then her eyes fell on a bottle of vodka and two glasses that certainly hadn't been there a couple seconds ago. "Er, can i offer you a glass of vodka, perhaps?" she asked in a refined voice.

"That would be wonderful, thank you," Dumbledore beamed.

It soon became apparent that Mrs. Stine and the vodka bottle were good friends. She poured them each a generous measure and downed hers in a single gulp. Smacking her lips in evident appreciation, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time. Dumbledore didn't hesitate to press his advantage.

"I was wondering what you could tell me of young Harry's history?"

Mrs. Stine nodded and poured another glass. "Aye, I can do that. I started here shortly before he arrived, y'see. Like I said, he turned up on the door step on November Second. Had a letter what said his name was Harry James Potter, and his birthday was July thirty-first. Nothing else, no contact information."

She nodded impressively and gulped back her second shot. "'snot all that uncommon, you know. Lots of kids still turn up that way."

"I see," said Dumbledore.

"Well, we did all kinds of searches in the records. Couldn't find any Potter's anywheres, leastways none who was missing a baby called Harry," Mrs. Stine continued, pouring another shot. She seemed to be relaxing and rather enjoying herself, with the bottle in hand and an eager audience. "So after about two weeks we gave up, no luck with the records and nobody ever came looking for him, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since."

Mrs. Stine idly poured another shot of vodka. Two quarter-sized spots started burning high on her cheeks. "He's a funny boy," she said suddenly.

"Yes, I rather thought he might be," said Dumbledore, feeling that cold wind again. Those words...

"He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was ... odd."

"Odd in what way?" asked Dumbledore gently.

"Well, he-"

But Mrs. Stine pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her glass.

"He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," said Dumbledore.

"And nothing I say will change that?"

"Nothing at all," said Dumbledore, feeling the cold wind growing from a breath into a breeze.

"You'll be taking him away, whatever?"

"Whatever," said Dumbledore, nodding gravely.

There was silence, broken only by the patter of feet from overhead and a faint holler of "Give me back the ball!" from somewhere outside.

Mrs. Stine squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, "He scares the other children."

"You mean he is a bully?" asked Dumbledore.

"I think he must be," said Mrs. Stine, frowning slightly, "but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents. ... Nasty things..."

Andrew's McMillan's Guinea Pig ... well, Harry said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

"I shouldn't think so, no," said Dumbledore quietly.

"But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Andrew had some kind of run-in the day before."

Mrs. Stine took another swig of vodka, slopping a little over her chin.

"And then on the summer outing-we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside-well, Amanda Hill and Malcolm Davidson were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into the woods with Harry Potter. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things. ..."

Dumbledore felt cold all over now. Oh Merlin, he thought, horrified. Is it starting all over again?

Forcing himself to calm down with Occlumency, he brought his attention back to Mrs. Stine, who was looking at him, gaze steady in spite of all the vodka she'd just consumed. "I don't think too many people will be too sad to see the back of him."

"You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?" said Dumbledore. "He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer."

"Oh, well, that's better than a jab in the eye with a sharp stick," said Mrs. Stine with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Dumbledore was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the vodka was now gone. "I suppose you'd like to see him?"

"Very much," said Dumbledore, also rising.

Mrs. Stine led him out the door and up the creaky wooden stairs. It was all Dumbledore could do to keep his legs from shaking as he followed. This must surely be a nightmare.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Stine, stopping at a battered door in a long corridor on the second floor. She knocked twice and opened the door. "Harry, you have a visitor. This is Mr. Dunderbor...Mr. Bunkbed. He's come to tell you-well, I'll just let him tell you, shall I?"

Dumbledore advanced into the room and Mrs. Stine closed the door with a sharp click.

It was a small bare room. NO artwork at all adorned the walls. It's only furnishings were a very scarred bed with numerous initials and crude carvings embellishing the headboard, and an equally battered wardrobe in the corner. A metal folding chair leaned against the wall.

A boy was sitting on the threadbare blanket atop the rickety looking bed, holding a book. He was sharp featured, dark haired and very pale. Green eyes that looked like chips of ice rose slowly from his book to stare unnervingly at Dumbledore, standing in the doorway. A lightning bolt shaped scar was faintly visible in the dimness.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's whimsical appearance. There was a moment's silence.

"How do you do, Harry?" said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard metal chair beside Harry, so that they looked rather like a tableau of a psychiatrist's office.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

""Professor"?" repeated Harry. He looked wary. "Is that like "doctor"? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?"

He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Stine had just left.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling.

"I don't believe you," said Harry. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and grown even colder. He was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Harry stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything,

warier still.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, was frightened. Badly frightened. It took every skill at Occlumency he knew from revealing it to this boy in front of him. To hear almost the exact same words out of Harry Potter's mouth that had issued from Tom Riddle fifty odd years ago, it was frightening him to his very soul. Had he been possessed when the Killing Curse had backfired on him on that fateful night?

He was jerked out of his frightening thoughts as the boy spoke again.

"Who are you?"

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school-your new school, if you would like to come." It was costing him a huge effort to keep his voice calm as he answered Harry. He seemed helpless to do anything else.

Harry leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.

"You can't kid me! The funny farm, that's where you're from, isn't it? "Professor," yes, of course-well, I'm not going, see? That old bat's the one who should be in the funny farm. I never did anything to little Amanda Hill or Malcolm Davidson, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

Inside his mind, Dumbledore was shrieking for this to end, because this was surely a nightmare. For Harry to say almost the exact same things as Riddle had all those years ago...

With an even greater effort, Dumbledore forced his voice to sound serene as he answered.

"I am not from a mental hospital," said Dumbledore patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you'd rather not attend the school, nobody will force you."

"I'd love to see them try," Harry sneered.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, ignoring Harry's last statement, "is a school for people with special abilities."

"I'm not mad!"

"I know you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

Harry stopped, absolutely stunned. His eyes flickered back and forth between Dumbledore's as though trying to catch him at a lie. Dumbledore felt a tentative thrust at his Occlumency shield and had to repress a wince of fright. Legilimency, at his young age? This day was getting worse and worse.

"it's...it's magic, what I can do?" Harry asked in a whisper.

Dumbledore felt yet another wave of goosebumps up and down his body. "What is it you can do?"

"All sorts of things," Harry breathed. A flush of excitement had risen in his hollow cheeks, and his green eyes were shining with a hungry gleam. "I can make things come to me without touching them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

Harry sat heavily on the bed and stared at his hands. Dumbledore was nearly paralyzed with fear. What did this all mean?

"All my life, I knew there was something. I knew I was special," Harry muttered to his hands. "I knew I was different."

"You were quite right," said Dumbledore at last. "You are a wizard."

Harry looked up. The wild happiness on his face made it look rather feral, but he quickly schooled his expression back to neutrality. He couldn't hide the feverish gleam in his eye, however.

"Are you a wizard, too?"

"Yes, I am," Dumbledore replied.

"Prove it!" It came out like his command to tell the truth had earlier.

Dumbledore stood. More to gain time to bring his Occlumency to bear than anything else, he turned and stared out the window. What was happening here? Dare he mention Tom Riddle to this boy, who might be a vessel?

On the whole, he thought not. He had just managed to gain the boy's trust. Instead, he would wait and see.

After a moment, Some of his initial fright dissipated, and he could bring logic back to the situation. If Harry was really being possessed by Tom Riddle, he wouldn't be acting the same way he had when Dumbledore had come to deliver his Hogwarts letter back then; he would be trying to kill him instead.

"Well?" came Harry's voice from behind him.

Dumbledore turned with a start. "My apologies, Harry. I was lost in my own thoughts there for a moment," Dumbledore said, twinkling kindly down at him, most of his equilibrium restored. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Dumbledore pulled his wand, and, with a casual flick, a squashy chintz armchair appeared, into which Dumbledore sank gratefully. "Ah, this is much more comfortable," he sighed.

Harry's eyes narrowed speculatively, a greedy expression appearing on his face. Pointing at the wand, he asked: "Where can I get one of them?"

"This and many more things may be purchased at Diagon Alley, London," said Dumbledore.

"I don't have any money," said Harry baldly.

Dumbledore smiled a true smile for the first time. "Ah, but you do. Your parents did leave you a few things, don't you know."

If Dumbledore thought mentioning his parents would provoke a positive reaction from the boy, he was sadly mistaken. Harry's expression didn't change, but a patch of color started burning in his pale cheeks. He didn't say anything about his parents, however.

"How do I get to this Diagon Alley, then?"

"I can take you there if you wish-"

"No! I'm used to going around London on my own. Just tell me how to get there."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. In spite of his misgivings, which were very high indeed, he gave Harry directions on finding the Leaky Cauldron. However, he would follow him, just in case. Things were just too eerie to do otherwise.

A/N:

No affiliation with the Stephen King story except the name. Portions taken from HBP.

You can consider this sort of a challenge. This wasn't supposed to be a developed story, rather a springboard. Dumbledore finds Harry in an orphanage and has conversations similar to that one he had with young Mister Riddle way back when. I'd be interested to see if there are any stories like that, or, barring that, if anyone can come up with a story around it. If anyone wants to take this idea, let me know.


	3. Facts of Life

The Facts of Life

By Opopanax

AN: In which Harry tells the facts of life to Headmaster Dumbledore, and in which I poke fun at the unimaginative authors at ffn. Parody fic, sort of. Previously published.

Albus Dumbledore, esteemed Hogwarts Headmaster, Chief Warlock, etc, etc, studied the administrative paperwork on his desk and thought happily about his plans. Young Harry Potter was nicely ensconced at Privet Drive, grieving his dead Godfather and isolated from the Wizarding World once more. He would then be rescued by a benevolent Dumbledore, and Dumbledore himself could go back to being young Mr. Potter's personal savior, never knowing that it was Albus who had arranged for the death of sirius Black, and for nearly every other happening in Mr. Potter's life.

Harry needed to be kept isolated and weak, contact restricted to those of whom Albus had total control. It would not do for Harry to start questioning things or to start drawing conclusions.

SO when a quiet knock sounded on the Headmaster's door, Albus was very surprised. Looking down at the charmed parchment which kept track of all the magical signatures stepping onto the office staircase, Albus saw with some mild surprise that it was the very subjects of his thoughts knocking on the door.

"Come in," Albus called.

The door opened, and young Potter walked in confidently, exhibiting none of the signs Albus thought would be there. He was wearing fine dress robes, his usual messy hair slicked back, scar shining prominently on his forehead, green eyes blazing in his face. He was not depressed or moody at all, by all visual indications.

"Ah Harry, would you care for a Lemon Drop?" Dumbledore asked jovially, offering the bowl.

"No thank you, Headmaster," Harry said, seating himself in front of the Headmaster's desk.

"So, then, my boy. What brings you to my office today?" Dumbledore asked, twinkling serenely at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "I had assumed that you were at your family's home, perhaps enjoying your summer holiday and bonding with your relatives over your recent loss."

Harry smirked. "I have come today to tell you the facts of life, Headmaster," he answered, leaning back and putting his feet on the desk. "You see, I came to a rather important decision some time ago, and I think now that is time for you to reveal it to you."

Dumbledore felt worried, but he let none of it show on his face. Sending out a tiny Legilimency probe, he felt nothing where Potter's mind should be, nothing at all. "Is that so, Harry? What decision might that be?"

Harry's smirk widened as he felt Dumbledore's Legilimency. "Let me start at the beginning," he said sagely, as if imitating Dumbledore. "Five years ago I arrived at Hogwarts, safe and sound. I was neither as well-nourished, nor as happy as I would've preferred, but I was alive and healthy. I was not a pampered prince, but as normal as a boy as I could be, under the circumstances."

Harry almost laughed at the expression on Dumbledork's face, as he threw his own words back at him. It was priceless. He would have to show his mentor later in a Pensieve.

"And then ... well, you will remember the events of my first year at Hogwarts quite as clearly as I do. I rose magnificently to the challenge that faced me, and sooner-much sooner-than I had anticipated, I found myself face-to-face with Voldemort. I survived again. I did more. I delayed his return to full power and strength." Harry paused. "Or at least, that's what you think, anyway."

"Harry? What do you mean by that?" Dumbledore asked, looking worried.

Harry smiled happily. "When I got down there, to that final room in your little tests-oh yes, I know it was a test for me-I met Voldemort for the first time. He tried to lie about my parents' death, but I saw through that. And then he said something very illuminating. Something that would change my life forever."

There was silence in the office. The silvery instruments Harry had broken a week before were still broken, so the silence wasn't even broken by their odd whirring and ticking.

"He said that there is no good and evil, that there is only power and those too weak to seek it. It was as though somebody had set off a light bulb in my brain, because I knew he was right. All my life, people have had power over me. The Dursleys, you, all the professors here, even my so-called friends. And I knew then and there that I didn't want that kind of life. I wanted to be the powerful one. I wanted to be free."

Dumbledore still didn't say anything, but his face was going whiter by the second.

"So. I gave Voldemort the stone. But he found out it was a fake, right then and there. But because I gave it to him, I wasn't punished. We decided to make me pass out from magical exhaustion, so that when you found me, I would appear to have fought a great battle. Qurrell died when Voldemort left him, of course."

"But, Harry, how could you-"

"Hush, old man, I'm not finished yet," Harry said, holding up a finger in admonishment. "You surely don't want to miss such an interesting tale as this, do you?"

Dumbledore didn't say anything, and Harry continued, still smirking slightly.

"Second year is when it gets interesting. I fought that basilisk and killed it, and killed Riddle's diary too. I wanted to meet him and learn from him properly, but I couldn't cause the death of one of your students without looking suspicious. SO Riddle had to die and I spun that sad tale about going to rescue her. I had bought books over the previous summer and learned about Occlumency, at the shade Voldemort's suggestion, and learned to create the perfect Golden Boy image everyone expected to see, leaving my real thoughts hidden behind that barrier, and so nobody, not you or Snape, saw through my tale for the lie it was."

"I'm gonna skip over third year, cause nothing interesting really happens. I was happy to meet my Godfather of course, but secretly delighted Pettigrew escaped. While pissed off at him for betraying my parents, I knew he was only doing it under Voldemort's orders. Voldemort spirit told me briefly about the prophecy, which was why he came after me as a baby. I of course didn't want you to know that, and in hindsight I'm glad I didn't tell you. You probably would've obliviated me."

"Now we get to the fun part. None of the Death Eaters knew I wanted to switch sides, so the whole Triwizard debacle happened pretty much in canon." Harry smirked at his small joke and continued. At the graveyard, Pettigrew killed Diggory, and we used a slight variation on the ritual I told you about. Voldemort came out of the cauldron, looking a lot like a younger Tom Riddle. But he put the snake glamor on, so the Death Eaters would be intimidated."

"This is all very interesting, Harry, but I must insist that you cease this at once," Dumbledore said.

"You know of the prophecy, you know that if you don't defeat Tom, the whole world will end in darkness," he finished, looking sadly at Harry as though he were a great disappointment.

Harry ignored this and continued his story. "We staged a duel for the Death Eaters' benefit, and we encountered that Priori Incantatem effect, which surprised us both. I escaped with Diggory's body, Fudge didn't believe us, Moody was an impostor, which I'm really surprised you didn't know."

"While you sat there thinking I was isolated from everybody after that, I was at Riddle Manor. Tom took me under his wing, and he didn't even have to bugger me to do it. I didn't fall in love with him either, that would be just sick, don't you think? I mean, the guy's old enough to be my grandfather."

"Anyway, he taught me a great number of things. I learned of many branches of magic, and we grew close, even without the buggering being involved. He told me about his early life, which was eerily similar to my own, again, I wonder if that was by your own design. Was it, Headmaster?"

"Maybe just a little," Dumbledore said. "I feared I might've made a mistake with young Tom, you see, in ignoring his pleas for help. I fear, now, that I have made the same mistakes with you. You have turned dark," he finished sadly.

"What else do you expect, Headmaster?" Harry asked, letting a bit of anger show for the first time. "You set me up with people who hate me, manipulate my friends to spy on me, keep me from my rightful guardian, all so you can hone your so-called weapon." Harry took a deep breath and schooled his face into an expressionless mask.

"Fifth year was rather hard. We found out my scar was a Horcrux, you see, but we couldn't do anything about it, because the only way we knew of to get rid of a Horcrux was through basilisk venom or aiming an AK at it. That was probably your goal all along, get Tom to kill me in hopes of also killing the Horcrux. Anyway, Tom was rather angry all year long at the incompetence of his Death Eaters and his failure to merge the scar Horcrux back with himself, so my scar was prickling all the time and I was rather short tempered and moody."

"I had to put up an act and pretend to be angry at Umbridge, so I could keep up the image of the hotheaded Gryffindor. I taught the DA, I saved Weasley from Tom's snake, I kept up all the masks. And then last week the whole Department of Mysteries thing."

Harry sighed heavily. "Tom had to keep up the masks too, you know. He sent me a false image of Sirius being tortured. I of course knew he wasn't at the Department of Mysteries via the communications mirrors he gave me, but I had to play along. Tom wanted the prophecy, you see, and he couldn't just stroll in there and get it, because it said Dark Lord, not Tom Riddle on the orb. And unless you're explicitly named in the master book at the Hall of Prophecy, you can't touch it."

"That whole thing was a fuck up from the get-go. I was supposed to go alone, listen to the prophecy, fight a few Death Eaters to show you a false memory later, and get out basically unharmed. But those five idiots insisted on coming along, and I couldn't very well stop them, not and keep up the innocent act."

"I told Tom what happened via our connection, and he wasn't pleased, but he understood the necessity of keeping things hidden just a bit longer."

"Well, you know what happened. Bellatrix was put under the Imperius Curse and forced to send Sirius through the veil."

Harry fixed the Headmaster with a fiery green gaze. "I won't forgive you for that, by the way, Headmaster. Both Bellatrix and I will get our revenge on you for that. Both of us loved Sirius; he was her favorite cousin growing up, you see. Even though Azkaban twisted her mind, she still remembered that."

"I am sorry-"

"Save it, Headmaster, I don't want to hear the phrase "for the greater good" ever again," Harry snapped, slamming his fist on the desk and causing the heavy oak to split. "You are the one solely responsible for my Godfather's death. If it hadn't been for you, he would've just been stunned and safely out of the battle."

"Now what, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, looking very tired all of a sudden. "What do you intend to do?" Dumbledore planned to hit Harry in the back as he was leaving with a stunner and then obliviate him, realigning his personality to what it should be, but he could pretend to play along.

Harry laughed darkly. "Now what? I intend to take revenge on you, Headmaster. I am going back to learn more from Tom, and I am going to take his place at his right hand. He merged with a couple of his HOrcruxes, so he's now sane again, and back to his old self. Eradicated Muggles isn't his goal now,'; deposing you and bringing back the old ways is. I did that much for him."

"I can't allow that, Harry," Dumbledore said regretfully. You need to defeat him so the world can be safe once more."

"You don't get it, Headmaster," Harry said, as if talking to a small child. "You can't kill me, because only tom can do that. And you can't obliviate me either, because 1, my Occlumency is a hell of a lot better than yours, and 2, if an obliviate spell hits me, I have a parsel-made portkey that will rip through any wards."

"So you see, Headmaster, you have lost your weapon. I wonder what you'll do now?"

"I will get you back under my control, Harry," Dumbledore said, losing the grandfather image and trying to overpower Harry with his aura. "You are the one named in the prophecy and your destiny is fixed. I won't allow it to be any other way."

Harry just laughed and stood up. "You can try, Headmaster. But I am immune to love potions now, so you can toss the plan of having the littlest Weasel trying to force me to marry her, and you can stop bribing Granger with the Head Girl badge for spying on me. Because I'm not coming back here, ever."

Harry shuttered theatrically. "Did you know she was going to name one of our kids after you and Snape? Seems she had a fondness for him, after she was willingly giving him sex in the potions lab. Albus Severus Potter, how horrible. And I can't believe you let your pet Death Eater" do that to students anyway, but I suppose she looks enough like my mother that he was enacting some sort of sick fantasy."

Harry rose and headed for the door. "Goodbye, Headmaster," Harry said, opening the door and walking out before Albus could digest this new revelation. "See you in the Wizengamot."

Before Albus could move, Harry was gone. And with him, went the hope for ending this war.

AN: If anyone wants to build a story around this, or continue it, feel free. I just had to get that out there, because it seems there is nobody on FFN who can come up with an HP/LV story that doesn't involve slash. I got nothing against slash, but when you take away all the slash stories, there really isn't all that much in the HP/LV genre.


	4. My Best Friend

My Best Friend

By Opopanax

AN: sad little oneshot. Ron bashing. cliches. I like cliches, however. WEEE.

AN2: Expanded version. We now see what happens to Ron.

Chapter 1

Demise

It was the middle of December. The temperature had dropped to below fifteen degrees, but the young man sitting in the dark room in a darker house barely registered the cold and snow blowing against the windows. Tears ran slowly down his face as he cradles the body of his first and best friend against his chest.

The right side of her chest had been pierced with a blasting curse and her head hung limply over his arm, eyes gazing glassily at the ceiling. Never before had she looked so...so dead and so lifeless.

After having sat there for several hours, Harry Potter finally moved. Stiffly, he rose and set the body gently on the table. Pulling out his wand, he conjured a small, velvet lined box and arranged her gently into it. "I'll avenge you, Hedwig," he whispered quietly, green eyes burning with hatred for the one who would murder his defenseless familiar like that. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll make that son of a bitch pay."

Her death had hit particularly hard because Hedwig was not just an owl. For almost twelve years, she had always been there. Locked up at the Dursleys during the summers, surviving on short rations with him; visiting him in the mornings at school even when there was no mail; sitting on his shoulder while he did homework and seeming to read with him. Harry remembered that time in fifth year when she had been attacked. He had been on edge all morning, and in his mind he seemed to hear a faint scream just before History of Magic class.

And now, here she lay, dead. Dead by the hand of his former best friend. Because Ronald bloody Weasley just couldn't keep his hands to himself.

It had all started last week when Hermione had walked in on the redheaded fool in bed with, of all people, Pansy Parkinson. She hadn't screamed, she hadn't cried, she hadn't staged a big "from-this-day-forward-I-have-no-husband" scene. She simply walked in quietly, saw what he was doing, or rather whom, took off the wedding ring he had given her, and threw it in his face. Then turned and walked out.

It was only later, when she had come banging on Harry's door, that she broke down crying. It'd always been that way with them. Ron would do something utterly stupid and Harry would be there to comfort her. In the 5 years since the end of the war, Ron hadn't grown up at all. The adulation of the Wizarding world went straight to his head and he began to do stupid things. Yet Hermione always took him back. Finding him in bed with Pansy Parkinson, the Slytherin graduate whom Ron had bad mouthed throughout their years of school and beyond, however, was the straw that broke the hippogriff's back, apparently.

"I can't do this anymore, Harry," Hermione had sobbed on his shoulder. "He keeps right on doing the same old things, tells me he'll change, but then goes right back out and does it again."

Harry had made soothing noises and rubbed her back, debating on telling her what Ginny had done. Finally, reluctantly, he decided she had a right to know, since Ron might've done the same thing.

After the tears had calmed down and Harry and Hermione were sitting in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place with steaming cups of tea, Harry took her hand and spoke.

"Uh, Hermione, I think it's about time I told you what happened with Ginny, and, uh, maybe this might have some bearing on your situation," he said, not meeting her eyes and toying idly with his teaspoon. Randomly, he remembered a moment in their fifth year when Hermione had said something about Ron having the emotional range of a teaspoon, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips, almost against his will.

"Ginny? What's that got to do with anything? I thought you guys just broke up."

For a long moment, Harry didn't answer, but became even more interested in his teaspoon.

"Well?"

Slowly, Harry raised his head and looked directly into her slightly red-rimmed chocolate eyes. "Well, I found out that she had been dosing me with love potions since sixth year. Remember when I broke up with her after Dumbledore's funeral? How she didn't put up much of a fuss. Well, turns out she didn't have to; she could get me back on potions any old time."

Hermione gaped. "But-" she sputtered. "That's illegal! How'd you find out about it?"

It was a couple of days after Fred's funeral. "I came to the Burrow unannounced ... I wanted to talk to Ginny..."

Harry took a deep breath, gazing at a far corner of the room for a moment. "I thought we could maybe get back together, after, you know, the funerals. I felt really bad about everything, all the deaths and stuff ... well, you know how I was back then."

Hermione nodded and squeezed his hand supportively. "I understand, Harry. What happened then?"

. I came in through the kitchen and heard Ginny and Molly discussing when to get me back on the potions. I put on my cloak-I always carry it with me now-and it turns out I was really supposed to die, and the Weasleys were going to get my money. Dumbledore apparently arranged it."

"OH, Harry," Hermione said, rushing around the table and hugging him. "That's terrible. What'd you do?"

Harry smiled sardonically. "I left. Haven't been back there since. But you know what the really ironic part is?"

"Hmmm?"

"I was going to try and arrange a big galleon transfer to the Weasleys' vault. As a thank you for taking me into their circle as part of their family. And, of course, if they wanted money, all they would've had to do is ask." Harry snorted bittery. "I had no idea they were being paid to do it in the first place."

Harry shook himself, bringing his mind away from his dark thoughts. Hermione needed him.

"Enough about that. we need to find out if you've been potioned as well."

Hermione's lip trembled, before the familiar resolve settled in her eyes. "All right, I want to know."

Harry nodded and pulled his wand. He muttered the revealer spell and Hermione glowed blue. "Guess I was right," he said sadly. "Not Amortentia, but a weaker version. If it'd been Amortentia you'd be a mindless idiot all the time and it couldn't have been hidden for so long."

Harry had expected many things. Fear, tears, sadness. but the look of unbridles fury on Hermione's face made him back up hastily, raising his wand almost unconsciously. "That fucking bastard!" she hissed, sounding almost as if she was about to lapse into Parseltongue. "I'll make him pay for this."

Before Harry could stop her, she had rushed through the fireplace shouting: "The Leaky cauldron!"

And there you have it, a true Gryffindor, Harry thought wryly, before cleaning up their tea service. He only hoped Hermione knew what she was doing.

# # #

Ronald Weasley growled and threw his clothes back on, muttering something to Parkinson about having an afternoon appointment. He had an appointment all right; an appointment to teach that snotty mudblood whore her place in the grand scheme of Weasley life. In other words, he was going to cut himself a chunk of prime Granger ass, and you by Merlin better believe it. No stupid bitch was going to throw his wedding ring at him, not at all.

That stupid Potter, he thought venomously to himself as he headed for the floo. I bet he put her up to this. That'd be just like Potter, trying to steal what was his.

Ron staggered out of the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, waved sullenly at Tom and looked

around for Granger. She was promised to him, dammit, and he would drag her back where she belonged.

She was nowhere to be seen, however. And, in typical Ron Weasley fashion, he decided to put off dragging her back when he saw the dinner special. He was hungry.

An hour later, after having successfully charmed a couple of buxom witches into sharing his table, Ron was feeling, if not happy, then somewhat satisfied, when, lookie here, friends and neighbors. Is that a certain mudblood staggering out of the fireplace? A certain mudblood with hair like a tornado stricken bird nest? Why yes, yes it was.

"Granger you get your ass over here right now!" he bellowed, showing his usual tact and subtlety.

Granger jumped and spun to face him, a look of homicidal fury on her face. Even Ron, as dense as he was, took a step back, suddenly remembering that she had been hailed the brightest witch of the age for a reason. Her wand was out and it was glowing ominously. The pub had gone totally silent, all its patrons sitting like birds on telephone wires, waiting for a juicy bit of scandal.

"How could you do this to me, Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Granger screamed, her wand jabbing at him and sending purple sparks into the air. "You dose me with love potions and sleep around with any witch that'll have you. Did you dose all your little floozies with potions too?"

Ron stood there, gaping like a fish, before his brain caught up to what she had said. With a roar, he lunged at her. "You keep your mouth shut, bitch!" he screamed, hands reaching to throttle her. "I'll-"

But what he was going to do was never found out, because he was hit with a stunner, a body bind, and a silencing charm before he'd taken three steps. The two witches he'd charmed were looking furious as well, and they had hit him with the bind and silencer. It took all of Hermione's self control to not castrate him on the spot.

"Bastard," she muttered, suddenly seeming to deflate. She sank into a chair and sobbed.

"There there, now, dear," one of the witches at the table said. "I'm glad you told us what he was like."

Hermione only nodded sadly and continued to cry. "I was going to marry him," she choked out finally. "I found him in bed earlier with another woman and threw his ring back at him."

"Good for you, dearie," the other witch said. "Serves him right."

Just then, Harry Potter opened the door to the pub and strode in, eyes crackling with power. "Hermione, come home with me," he said gently, taking her hand and tugging her into an embrace. "Let's leave this son of a bitch to himself." Harry kicked Ron in the side before enervating him and leading Hermione out the door to side-along her back to Grimmauld Place.

# # #

Within a couple of days, Hermione had moved back to her own flat. She was working for the Department of Mysteries and thus couldn't take too many days off. After the first day, she had gone from sad, to angry, back to sad, before finally seeming to come to grips with the betrayal of their former best friend. Mrs. Weasley had sent them howlers, but Harry quickly and neatly burned them before they could explode; neither of them was interested in what she had to say. Ron hadn't bothered to contact them at all, for which they were grateful.

But Ron had something much worse than howlers in mind, apparently. This morning, while Harry had gone out to get more groceries, Ron had flooed into Grimmauld Place, murdered Hedwig with a blasting curse, and left a note that simply said: You'll get yours, Potter.

Ron knew, from all his years as Harry's best friend, how tenderly he felt about Hedwig, and this single act almost more than any other would cut him deeply. Shuffling sadly out to the back garden, Harry buried his first and best friend and vowed vengeance on Ronald Bilius Weasley. Murdering a wizard's familiar was a high crime, but he wouldn't report it to his superiors at the DMLE. No, Harry vowed as he tamped the last bit of earth over Hedwig's grave. I will handle this myself. And Merlin help anyone who got in his way.

Chapter 2

Resolution

Harry straightened over the grave and resolutely wiped the tears of bitterness and grief from his face, before his emerald eyes lit with a fire for vengeance. Striding purposefully back into the house, he Floo called Amelia Bones and requested, and was granted, a couple of days off. He had some scores to settle.

After withdrawing from the fireplace and muttering, for what had to be the millionth time, about idiotic wizards and their communication methods, Harry left Grimmauld Place to find Hermione. She had been wronged as much as he had and deserved a stake in this as well.

Not paying much attention to the snow that was gently falling, Harry Apparated to an alley on Hermione's street and walked up the steps to the building.

"Who's there?" came the rather nasally voice of his best friend. Harry could tell she was still distraught over Ron's betrayal.

"It's me, Harry," he answered through the intercom.

The door clicked open and Harry went up the stairs, privately wondering what to say to comfort his distraught friend. Even after all these years, Harry was still uncomfortable around crying girls.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione said wearily, letting him into the flat and hugging him rather despondently.

Hermione had filled out quite a bit since her schoolgirl days, now sporting quite a buxom chest and flaring hips. Harry was acutely aware of the changes in his friend and berated himself for it. She's grieving, Potter, get a grip, he told himself.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry said, shoving the less than platonic thoughts about his best friend into a dark corner of his mind and hugging back awkwardly.

"How are you hanging in there?"

Hermione smiled wanly. "I'm fine," she said, looking away and blushing slightly.

Harry scoffed and gently took her chin in his hand. "I know better than that, Hermione. Tell me the real truth, now."

Hermione gave a more genuine smile. "I'm terrible, actually. How could he do that to me?" Suddenly she fixed Harry with a stern gaze, not unlike the look she used to give when she suspected he hadn't done his homework. "I do have a question for you though, Harry. If you knew

Ginny had dosed you with love potions since after the final battle, how come it took you this long to test me for it?"

"Because I assumed you were happy, or at least content with Ron," he answered. "I mean, once I actually cooled down and thought about it, it made sense. Ginny had always been a little fangirl and before sixth year I never showed much interest in her. So she had to resort to drastic measures. I was still shocked, but like I said, after I thought about it, it sort of made sense."

Harry paused and scuffed his feet on the carpet, rather ashamed of himself. "Ron didn't have those kinds of issues. I mean, we all assumed he really did love you, especially after that Yule Ball. SO I just didn't think you had been dosed."

There was a silence while Hermione digested this. "I ... see. Well, hindsight is 20-20, I guess. It was the same for me, sort of. Sixth year I really started to fancy him-" she gave a faint grimace of disgust "-and you and I grew apart over that dumb potions book, remember? And I got jealous about Ron kissing Lavender. He probably dosed me back then too."

"Probably, yeah. None of us could figure out why you kept forgiving him after all the crap he put you through. But it was all the potions. I'm sorry for not checking sooner, Hermione."

"It's ok, Harry," she said, smiling. "I forgive you. And we're both done with the Weasley's so all's well that ends well."

Harry's face darkened. His magic begged for release and the windows rattled ominously. "No, we aren't, actually. Do you know what that asshole did this morning?" he growled.

Hermione stepped back in alarm. "Harry?"

"That son of a bitch killed Hedwig!" he roared. "My owl, he hit her with a Reducto and left me a fucking note!"

"Oh Harry," Hermione cried. "Poor Hedwig. What're you going to do?"

Harry abruptly calmed. The look on his face made Hermione back up a step involuntarily. His eyes narrowed into green slits. "I'm going to make him pay," he said in an utterly calm and chilling voice. "Hedwig was my first true friend, and her death will not go unpunished."

"Harry! You don't mean to ... to kill Ron, do you?"

Harry blinked as if coming out of a trance. "Oh, no, Hermione. I'll do worse than that. Dumbledore said once that there are worse things than death. I intend to prove him right." And he would say no more on that, much to Hermione's consternation.

# # #

After murdering that son of a bitch Potter's stupid owl, Ron went back home. He was still limping slightly. That stupid bitch, he thought savagely. How dare she do this to him, after all he'd done for her?

Oh well, he thought to himself gleefully. Pussies are a dime a dozen and I've got lots to choose from. In fact there were a few girls in his house, ready and waiting for him, also under potions.

As he was stepping onto his porch, Ron heard a slight pop off to his right, but before he could turn he was hit by a stunner and knew no more.

Opening his eyes blearily, Ron came abruptly awake when he felt himself bound against a wall. The smell of dank stone met his nostrils and he heard things currying under his feet, along with the sounds of dripping water.

"Afternoon, Weasley," came a cold voice Ron recognized. "Welcome to my little party."

"Potter!" Ron roared, struggling in the bonds and nearly frothing at the mouth. "Let me go right now, you fucker!"

Harry laughed from just out of Ron's sight. "Oh no, not yet, my friend. We have to play some games first."

"Potter if you don't let me go right now I'll-"

"Oh shut up, Weasley," came another hated voice, that of Granger. "You never were vary good at giving threats."

"Shall we get started now, Hermione?" Potter said.

"Why yes, I do believe we should," Granger responded.

There was silence. Ron had a few moments to reflect, and in a rare burst of rational thought, he realized that perhaps killing Potter's owl wasn't a smart idea. He knew that Hedwig held a special place in Potter's heart, and that killing her would wound him deeply. But this...

All at once, a bright light hit him in the forehead and he heard a whispered "Legilimens!" and then he fell into darkness.

He was standing on the forest floor. Somewhere an owl hooted mournfully, echoing off the trees. Small insects hummed in the grass and bats fluttered in the moonlight, snatching up unwary insects.

What the hell, Ron thought, looking around at the dim clearing. And then, his eye caught something and he froze. His bladder let go with a rush and his eyes widened comically, before he turned and started to run.

Before he had gone two steps, a set of gigantic pincers had closed around his torso and Ron found himself hoisted high in the air. With a hiss and a click, his face got chewed off his skull, his last scream still echoing off the silent trees.

# # #

Hermione watched impassively as Ron twitched and piss ran down his leg. "You're sure this will keep him?" she asked Harry, standing off to one side with his wand pointed at Ron's forehead.

He nodded. "Oh yes. That nightmare loop will play, over and over, until his mind gives out. He's being eaten by Acromantulas, over and over again," he said, smiling a cold, ruthless smile. "Serves the son of a bitch right."

Hermione bit her lip worriedly, but didn't say anything. This was Harry's show. And, while she had been wronged by Ron as well, Harry had been wronged more. Ron, meanwhile, continued to scream, and scream, and scream.


	5. Immortal Dark Lord?

Immortal Dark Lord?

By Opopanax

AN: Brief oneshot, in which I find yet another thing in the Potterverse to complain about, and our favorite dark lord finds something to worry about.

It was tonight.

The most feared dark lord in a century, Formerly known as Tom Riddle, now called Lord Voldemort, Apparated silently into the outskirts of a small village called Godric's Hollow on Halloween. Tonight he would eliminate his final thrust to power, the final threat to his growing ascension, named in prophecy, named by fate.

It had been a very long crusade, his rise to power. Nothing more than an obscure orphan from London, Tom Riddle quickly rose through the hierarchy of Slytherin House at Hogwarts, taking on the name of Lord Voldemort, rallying the purebloods to his cause. By the 1970's, his domination of the Wizarding world was well under way.

Now, he was on his way to eliminate the last threat to his power. A new and promising young Death Eater by the name of Severus Snape had overheard part of a prophecy in the Hog's Head pub in Hogsmeade, before getting tossed out on his ear by the proprietor. _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. _Lord Voldemort didn't manage to hear the rest, unfortunately. Perhaps he should've waited, but he was so close to finishing his rise. The Ministry of Magic was almost done for, one final thrust and it would be in his hands and he could go about the purification of the world.

Voldemort sneered under his hood at the decorations in the town and the silly costumes the filthy Muggle children were wearing. Fools, he thought, if only they knew.

Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he glided up the high street of the town, listening to the stupid Muggles singing in the pub and the random knocks on house doors as the children went about, collecting candy. He could see the lights of the house he was looking for as he concentrated on the secret his spy had given them. Fools, he thought again, placing their trust in the wrong person. True Gryffindors, the whole lot of them.

Voldemort turned up the path and opened the gate with a lazy flip of his wand and slithered up to the front door. Another lazy flip of his wand and the door blasted off it's hinges and slammed into the floor, cracking into pieces.

"Lily! It's him! Take Harry and go, I'll hold him off!" James Potter hollered. There was the quick patter of light footsteps and a baby's surprised squeak.

Voldemort laughed a high laugh. "Really, Potter? You're going to hold me off? What on earth do you think you could possibly do to oppose Lord Voldemort? Avada Kedavra!" And just like that, James Potter was dead, lying unmarked and still on the living room floor.

Voldemort chuckled mirthlessly and stepped into the house. He could hear frantic footsteps upstairs, the bang of a door, and the scraping of furniture. Silly mudblood, he thought to himself. As if barricading the door would help.

Voldemort stepped over Potter's body and ambled casually up the stairs, twirling his yew and phoenix wand in his fingers. He was enjoying himself immensely. Tomorrow all the world would know. They would know that not even prophecy could stand in the way of Lord Voldemort.

On the right side of the hallway, a brightly painted door was firmly shut against him. There was not a sound behind it. Voldemort flipped his wand idly and the door, and all the furniture barricaded against it, blasted to pieces. Stepping casually through the debris, Voldemort entered the nursery.

Lily Potter was standing in front of the crib, arms spread wide, blocking her baby from sight. Her red hair fanned out behind her, her green eyes flashing pleadingly up at him.

"Stand aside, girl," Voldemort hissed, raising his wand. "You need not die this night."

"Please, not Harry," Lily cried, spreading her arms a little wider as if that would help. "Kill me instead, please, not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl," Voldemort cried, exasperated. Severus had requested her life be spared, and, feeling particularly generous, Voldemort agreed. But she would still die if she insisted on standing in the way.

"Take me instead, I'll do anything, just please, don't kill Harry!"

Voldemort sighed, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. "Very well, mudblood, as you wish. Avada Kedavra!"

Lily Potter slumped lifelessly to the floor. Voldemort ignored her and moved to stand in front of the crib.

The little baby stood shakily in it, holding on to the railing, the same green eyes as his mother's meeting Voldemort's red ones.

"So, Harry Potter. You are the child of my downfall," Voldemort said musingly, twirling his wand idly in his fingers.

"You hardly seem threatening at all, child. But I suppose I can take no chances. Avada Kedavra!"

As soon as he said the fatal words, Voldemort knew something was wrong. The jet of green light issued from Voldemort's wand, traveling impossibly slowly toward the child's forehead, his green eyes staring at it curiously. Voldemort began to move slowly, oh so slowly, out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. The green light hit the child, and bounced back off, leaving a small cut shaped like a bolt of lightning. As soon as it hit, time speeded back up again and the green light, now a weird yellow color, zoomed back and slammed straight into Voldemort.

Pain. Agony beyond all imagining. Voldemort's body was blasted to ash, and his soul rose up, a black mist in the cool air of the nursery. The magical backlash slammed into the walls and ceiling, causing them to explode outward in clouds of debris.

As soon as he left his body, Voldemort knew something was wrong. He remembered that ill-fated conversation with Horace Slughorn back in 1943, when he first asked about Horcruxes.

"A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Riddle.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form..."

Now, here he was, existing as less than a ghost, but something was wrong. He could feel something like a rubber band, from all his Horcruxes, pulling him toward the blackness.

When he made the Horcruxes, he was peripherally aware of them, not in any conscious way, but he could feel them in his subconscious. Because even if you set part of a soul aside in a container, it still remained connected, however tenuously, to the whole. The soul is a living thing, and the splitting of it is an unnatural act, and, as all first year wizards learn, magic has consequences. Now, as he floated in the blackness, they were all pulling at him, in seven directions. And the pull was getting stronger.

As he floated, helpless to do anything, the rubber bands snapped and he felt all his soul fragments come together, and he was blasted, screaming into the blackness of death.

Back in the cottage at Godric's Hollow, little Harry Potter felt a sharp searing pain in his forehead, and a black mist rose from it, screaming to float off through the wall. The cut healed, leaving only a faint lightning bolt shaped scar. Across the country, in a rundown shack outside the village of Little Hangleton, a black mist rose from a tarnished ring, and also floated, screaming into the night. Deep in a Gringotts vault, another black mist floated out of a gold cup embossed with the image of a badger and floated through the wall, wailing. Under the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor, up in the fabled Room of Requirement in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and in the Black house in London, more black mists rose and joined their originator, never to be seen again. Because HOrcruxes don't really work.

People would begin to start celebrating very soon, all hailing Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, as the destroyer of Voldemort And Voldemort would never be seen again.

AN: Not the most elegant story, but I have problems with the whole Horcrux concept. If they really do work, where are all the other immortal dark lords? Voldemort can't have been the only one ever to create a Horcrux, and yet you don't see them hanging around. Sure, you can say "well, gee, that's because nobody was around to help bring the Horcrux back to life." But I don't buy that either. The history of Wizard kind is very very long, and something like this would've been tried. So yeah, I have problems with the Horcrux concept.


	6. Why Should I?

Why Should I?

By Opopanax

Harry watched dispassionately as Dumbledore made a portkey out of the disembodied head of the wizard's statue from the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It glowed with a blue light and rattled against the floor, then came to rest. Dumbledore picked it up and walked toward Harry, where he was leaning against the wall, carrying the head. He looked oddly gruesome, reminding Harry of that time three years ago when he and Ron and Hermione had attended the Deathday party.

"Now see here, Dumbledore!" said Fudge, as Dumbledore picked up the head and walked back to Harry carrying it. "You haven't got authorization for that Portkey! You can't do things like that right in front of the Minister of Magic, you-you-"

His voice faltered as Dumbledore surveyed him magisterially over his half-moon spectacles.

"You will give the order to remove Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. "You will tell your Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical Creatures teacher so that he can return to work. I will give you-" Dumbledore pulled a watch with twelve hands from his pocket and surveyed it, "-half an hour of my time tonight, in which I think we shall be more than able to cover the important points of what has happened here. After that, I shall need to return to my school. If you need more help from me you are, of course, more than welcome to contact me at Hogwarts. Letters addressed to the headmaster will find me."

-From Order of the Phoenix, chapter 36

Without saying a word to the Headmaster, Harry grabbed the head and felt it whisk him away by the navel in a swirl of wind and color. With a thump, he came to rest in the Headmaster's office back at Hogwarts.

Everything was back in place. It was as if the Headmaster had just stepped out for some tea. The silvery instruments on their spindle-legged tables whirled and tinkled serenely. The portraits of past headmasters snoozed in their frames. Harry went over to the window and stared out at the grounds. Dawn was coming, drawing a line of pink on the eastern horizon. He watched uninterestedly as a flock of birds flew out of the forbidden forest. He wondered if Hagrid's little brother had taken down another tree.

It all seemed so unreal, now. If the outside world were to reflect his inner self, the portraits would be screaming in agony worse than that inflicted by the Cruciatus Curse. The forest would be burning and the old castle crumbling like a sand construct.

Sirius. The only person who looked out exclusively for Harry, who wasn't a willing puppet of the Headmaster. Sirius was gone. Harry didn't blame himself. Oh, no. He knew exactly where the blame went for this one. But his loss still hurt. It hurt more than anything he could ever remember hurting in his life. And oh boy, would he have something to say about it.

Before he could ruminate further, the headmaster stepped out of the fireplace, brushing soot off his robes. A great many of the portraits cheered and welcomed him back, and one of them brandished his ear trumpet exuberantly.

"Thank you," said Dumbledore softly. He did not look at Harry, but strode over to the perch and took out the ugly featherless Fawkes and set him gently on the bed of ashes before settling behind his desk.

"Well, Harry, you will be happy to know that no lasting damage has been done by the night's events. Madame Pomfrey is patching everyone up now. Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St. Mungo's but should be right as rain soon."

"Able to look at me now, are you?" said Harry coldly, staring right into the Headmaster's twinkling blue eyes. "Worth your notice again, am I?"

Harry was pleased to watch the twinkle die out in Dumbledore's eyes. "Harry, you must understand-"

"Oh, I understand all right," Harry said, still starin directly into his eyes. "You were afraid that old Tom would try to use me as a conduit into your mind, even though you're a master at Occlumency. Or at least, that's the reason you gave the order. What you were really trying to do was to make that link I have with Tom stronger, isn't that right? I wouldn't have you to rely on, which made me angry, which in turn made me more susceptible to Tom. That's what those Occlumency lessons-" Hary made air quotes "-with Snape were all about. Isn't that right? You wanted to make that link stronger."

"Harry, no! It wasn't like that," Dumbledore said, leaning forward on his desk.

"Oh, I think it's exactly like that. Thanks to your meddling, Sirius is dead. Or was that part of the plan too?

"No, Harry, it wasn't part of the plan, as you call it," Dumbledore said, looking tired. "I am as saddened by Sirius's loss as you are."

"Bullshit, Headmaster. I think you are quite glad he is gone. Because Sirius was the only person in your so-called order who looked out for me. He was the only person you couldn't control completely." Harry started pacing around the office, his hand gripping his wand and his magic flaring around him in a bright green aura.

"I've had a lot of time to think over the past year," he continued. I did a little digging, you see. I found out that it was you who cast the Fidelius Charm over my parents' house. Which means that you knew all along that Sirius wasn't the secret keeper. Once I found that out, I started wondering why you let him be sent to Azkaban. Care to find out what I think?"

Harry watched the Headmaster's face go white. Almost quicker than he could follow, Dumbledore's wand was up and pointing at him. "I'm sorry, Harry, but this is for the greater good. Obliv-"

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried. He was glad he'd put in all that secret time this year, sharpening his reflexes and spell casting. Harry smirked as Dumbledore's wand flew out of his hand and into his. It felt even better than his holly one, but there was no time to think about that now.

"Now, as I was saying," Harry said, watching in satisfaction as Dumbledore's face grew even whiter. You let Sirius get sent to Azkaban even though you knew he wasn't the secret keeper and thus didn't betray my parents to Voldemort. So I asked myself, why did he do that? And I answered myself, why, because he needed me to be beaten down, as it were. Once I did a little more research, I found out about that prophecy.

"But you never left the castle," Dumbledore said weakly. Harry was pleased to note that he wasn't nearly so self-assured as before.

Smirking, Harry shook his head and pulled out a small hourglass on a chain. Dumbledore's eyes widened in comprehension. "I made a few friends this year. One of them got me this little time turner. With it, I learned a great many things. You'd be surprised what the goblins will do, for a small fee, of course."

"Now, as I said, I learned a great many things. Once I found out about the prophecy, they all came together. You had Sirius sent to Azkaban so that I could be sent to my loving relatives. Incidentally, Number Four, Privet Drive is, and never has been, my home." Harry watched as several of the silvery instruments tinkled and came to a stop, before crumbling and falling to the floor. Dumbledore's face was a study in shock and he gripped the edges of his desk with white-knuckled intensity. All his plans had just been chucked out the window. His weapon wasn't supposed to find out about anything this early.

"Yes, that took care of those wards. Now, you needed me beaten, meek and pliable. You sent Hagrid to collect me, because he was loyal to you, and could start me on a process of thinking of Gryffindor as the epitomy of virtue and Slytherin as the personification of evil. You gave him the task of collecting the Philosopher's Stone so that the seeds of curiosity could be planted early. You told Mrs. Weasley to be there at King's Cross to guide me to the platform, you told Ron to make friends with me to cement the Anti-Slytherin bias Hagrid had started. Hermione was a wrench in your plans, but you played upon her love of authority figures to spy for you, for my own good, of course. You set up those traps to play to our strengths, leaving me alone to face Voldemort, again. How am I doing so far?"

Dumbledore could only nod. "It was for the greater good, Harry. I only hope you can forgive an old man his mistakes."

Harry ignored this and continued. "Second year, I bet you knew Ginny brought that diary in to the school. I can't believe there aren't wards to detect dark magic. I'm not sure what you were thinking by letting it in, and I don't care. My guess is that once I saved her, you could get her to hero worship me and then maybe later try to get her to marry me so that they could get access to the Potter fortune. I already know you were paying them, payments which, incidentally, I stopped about a month ago."

"Now, third year was another wrench in your plans. Sirius escaped, came here to the school, and I found out he was innocent and who the real culprit was. No manifestations of Voldemort to face, it was a pretty tame year, actually. Then he escaped and you kept close watch on him, I bet, to try and keep him from communicating too closely with me. You needed your weapon under your thumb, after all. Fourth year, I refuse to believe that Barty Crouch Junior fooled you for an entire year. You, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, could've called off the Triwizard Tournament and forced a redraw, but you let me compete. I bet you knew Peter would return to his master and they would try to do something to get him resurrected, but I have no proof. You weren't surprised at all when I came back, telling you that Voldemort was back. In fact, you looked oddly triumphant and not at all surprised when I told you he used my blood. I thought it was a trick of the light, but I wasn't wrong, upon later reflection."

"Well, Harry? What are you going to do now?" Dumbledore asked, looking oddly defeated. Harry didn't buy that look at all. He knew that as soon as he, Harry, left, Dumbledore would try to have him obliviated again so that his control would be reestablished.

Harry still ignored him. "I found out when I went to Diagon Alley this summer, after you're order dropped me off at Grimmauld Place, about all the money you stole from me. I had all the blocks you put on my magic removed by goblin healers, got this time turner so I could readjust to having access to all my magic, found out about the prophecy. This year was pretty hard, having to keep up a facade, but the sorting hat had it right when it said I could've been a good Slytherin."

"I am always right, Mr. Potter," the sorting hat said smugly from its shelf. And you would've made a very fine SLytherin indeed."

"Again, Harry, I ask, what are you going to do now? It appears that you have done a masterful job of trying to bring down all my plans. But Tom must be defeated, and you are the only one who can do it, as per the prophecy." Dumbledore sounded as though he got his spark back a little.

"Ah, I agree. TOm must be defeated." Dumbledore looked relieved. "But he was already defeated, don't you see, Headmaster?"

"No, Mr. Potter, I am afraid that I do not understand."

"I defeated him as a baby. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies," Harry quoted. "Vanquish does not necessarily mean kill, you know. He was vanquished by me that Halloween night."

"But you are forgetting the last half, Harry," Dumbledore said. "And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."

"No, Headmaster, I wasn't forgetting the other half. I am just ignoring it."

"I am afraid I do not understand, Harry," Dumbledore said, frowning."

"Then let me spell it out for you, my dear Headmaster," Harry said, finally showing an expression other than cold impartiality. His eyes blazed at Dumbledore in the precise shade of the Killing Curse, and he smiled a chilling smile. "I won't do anything to stop him, Headmaster. Not a thing."

Dumbledore looked shocked. "But you must, Harry. You are the only one who can!"

"Why, Headmaster? Why should I stop him? Why should I lift a finger to stop him, when it was you who created him?"

"He killed your parents! He will kill countless others if you don't stop him, Harry. He will come after your friends, he will decimate the whole wizarding world."

"Again, why should I care? I have no memories of my parents. They were soldiers in a war, they knew the risks. And as for my friends, I have no friends. They were all bought and paid for by you to spy on me. They don't give a damn about Harry Potter, the kid who just wants a normal life. To them, and to you, I am just a weapon to be wielded against Voldemort and then probably killed by you so that you could take all the credit. What doors wouldn't be opened to the Great Albus Dumbledore, the one who mentored the-Boy-Who-Lived into defeating the Dark Lord and who died tragically defending the wizarding world? The answer is no, Headmaster. I refuse to fight for a world which has done nothing for me, for people who turn on me at the slightest provocation, for the people who left me to suffer in a cupboard for ten years without bothering to check on me. I refuse to lay my life on the line for you, Dumbledore. You caused this mess, you can fix it. The only person I possibly would've fought for, Sirius, is dead now, thanks to you. If your pet death eater hadn't oepened up my mind even further than it already was, I wouldn't have seen that fake vision and Sirius would still be here. Now, I have nothing worth fighting for any longer. I am going to send a letter to Voldemort, telling him he can have this world, and welcome to it"

And with that, Harry turned and slammed out of the office, leaving a weeping Dumbledore and a bunch of shocked portraits behind.


	7. We've Got Tonight

We've Got Tonight

By Opopanax

A/N: My attempt at smut, but still a bit angsty. Lemons ahead.

* * *

_I know it's late, I know you're weary,_

_I know your plans don't include me._

_Still here we are, both of us lonely,_

_Longing for shelter from all that we see._

_Why should we worry, no one will care, girl._

_Look at the stars so far away._

_We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? We've got tonight babe,_

_Why don't you stay?_

-Bob Seger

* * *

1

She had been watching him for five years. Five long years and never once had he looked at her before this year. It was interesting, really. She was the kind of girl who faded into the background. It was sort of a defence mechanism; in Muggle primary school she had been picked on, and she developed the habit of being inconspicuous. She was neither a good student nor a bad one, she simply did her best and was somewhere in the middle, which is why she was in Hufflepuff. 'Puffs did their best, but generally weren't interested in the spotlight. Unless you were somebody like Cedric Diggory, may he rest in peace. Although, Cedric deserved all the attention he got. He was genuinely a good guy, and Hufflepuff House needed something to make it stand out from the other houses, who thought the 'Puffs were the rubbish heap of the school. Of course, pompous blowhards like Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley didn't help their reputation either. And stupid idiots like Zacharias Smith … Ugh.

She had, of course, purchased a number of modern history books when she found out she was a witch, wanting to know all about this strange new world she found herself in. In them, she read all about Harry Potter, the fabled Boy-Who-Lived. She had bought a few of the books which detailed his supposed adventures and scoffed at them. Honestly, marrying a veela at the age of five? Hogwash.

Still, it had been rather a shock when she saw him for the first time on the Hogwarts Express. He was scrawny, underfed looking and had the general air of someone who hadn't seen much sunlight. Also, he was dressed in little better than rags. Hardly the image of what a saviour was supposed to look like. His green eyes had briefly met hers, though, and something called to her heart in them. Some indefinable quality of loss which she couldn't clearly articulate at the tender age of eleven.

It was hard to approach him. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley did their best to discourage anyone from socializing with him. It was sort of understandable. Too many people wanted to capitalize on his fame, even though anyone with half a brain could see he didn't want it at all.

Another puzzling thing was his clothes. Anybody at all familiar with the wizarding world knew that the Potters were one of the wealthiest families out there. So why was the last scion of the house dressed worse than a London street urchin?

During the first year, she had watched him only sporadically, and observed some interesting things. He hated bullies like Malfoy, he wouldn't stand for them. He was a superb flyer. But what most interested her was the fact that he held back in classes.

Being shunted mostly to the sidelines of social life, she had developed a keen observational talent. People watching was by far her best skill, and it was this that made her decide to become some sort of diplomat after school. And it was this talent that had helped her to notice that Harry wasn't living up to his potential. After observing Hermione Granger, she understood why: he didn't want to be better than her. Further contemplation made her realize that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had to be his first ever friends, if he was deliberately slowing his learning down to stay with them. Granger's Achilles heel was her intelligence, and having anyone do better than her would be a deliberate insult to her. She was sad that Harry had to do this, but understood where he was coming from. And this revelation, more than anything, totally killed the Boy-Who-Lived mystique for her; he was just another lost, scared first year. She quit caring about the legend then, and he was forever just Harry afterward.

Rumours abounded at the end of the first year that he had once again faced and vanquished the Dark Lord, and his three day stay in the hospital wing certainly lent credence to the story. And then the whole mess in second year…

She had scoffed internally at her house mates' insistence, led by that pompous idiot, Macmillan, that Harry was the heir of Slytherin, just because he could speak Parseltongue. If you took a narrow minded view on things, it made sense (sort of), but when you looked at the big picture, it was utterly ludicrous. One of his best friends was Muggleborn, along with his mother, so it made absolutely no sense whatsoever that he was attacking Muggleborns in the school. To her shame though, she didn't speak out in his defence. She didn't want to bring attention on herself. Nobody would've listened to her anyway.

To her disgust, everybody once again believed him innocent at the end of the year. It held a pattern. Over the past five years, she had watched him go from being admired by the school, to hated, back to being admired again. It was bloody ridiculous.

Everybody once again turned on him in fourth year, thinking he was trying to steal glory from Hufflepuff by cheating and illegally entering himself into the Triwizard Tournament. Again, if you only looked at the surface of things, it made sense. For someone like her who had made a habit of watching Harry Potter, however, it was ridiculous. Harry hated his fame and wanted nothing to do with it.

When the Yule Ball had come, she had hoped deep within her heart of hearts that Harry might ask her to go with him. It was stupid though; she never had spoken a word to him, not once. But still, she hoped. He hadn't of course, and had gone with Parvati Patil, but to her secret relief, he didn't seem to enjoy it much, even though Parvati was one of the prettiest girls in the year. She had, however, seen him mooning after Cho Chang, which was slightly disappointing.

She had been sad as anyone when Harry had returned from the third task, clutching the dead body of Cedric Diggory. And then all summer, the papers were printing that Harry was a lying, attention-seeking brat and delusional, and that Albus Dumbledore was senile and losing his touch, when both had publicly announced the return of Voldemort. It made her furious, why would Harry lie about such a thing?

During fifth year, things got horrible. Being sort of shoved into the background of her year mates meant that she had missed the initial meeting of the DA, but also meant that people tended to talk freely in front of her, like she was a piece of furniture. As a result, she had overheard Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot discussing the fact that _the_ HarryPotter would be teaching them defence. Susan even bubbled that he could perform a corporeal Patronus, a feat nobody else could match.

So she approached Hermione Granger and signed up just around the end of November. She was fifteen now, and knew beyond a doubt that she loved Harry Potter. However, she would not be another Ginny Weasley or one of those other fangirls. She would probably never even get to speak with him personally beyond the DA. That was OK though; she could treasure her love in the sanctity of her own heart. No one need know. That was the beauty of love; it thrived on its own, without any pretence. The first time Harry Potter smiled at her would be one of her most treasured memories. She had smiled back, and she rejoiced quietly that he had noticed her. She did not blush in his presence, she did not stammer, she did not scribble his initials in little hearts on her notebooks. He existed in her heart, in his own special place, like a secret ache.

She had no illusions about herself. She was no Cho Chang or even Ginny Weasley, both of whom were popular and beautiful, and thus Harry probably would not even give her a second thought. She was a big girl with large round breasts even at fifteen, a round belly, broad hips and heavy thighs. She (and most of the Puffs, actually) had a tendency to snack a lot, what with the Hufflepuff dorms being near the kitchens. But, carrying heavy spell books up and down and all through the meandering corridors of Hogwarts kept her in reasonable shape. However, she would never be one of the svelte skinny girls everyone seemed to want.

She had signed up for the DA to be close to Harry, but also to learn defence. Umbridge had been the absolute worst teacher in the history of the school, and took great joy in punishing Harry. She had wept quietly one night when she had seen him trudging wearily down a corridor, hand wrapped in a bloody bandage. When it had slipped, she had caught the words _I must not tell lies_ embedded in his flesh.

Now, here it was, the end of the year, and she was sitting in the Great Hall on the day before the leaving feast, absently nibbling a slice of pie. Rumours were flying rapidly all over the castle that Harry Potter and five of his friends had gone and battled You-Know-Who and his inner circle at the Ministry. The _Daily Prophet_ was now calling him "the Chosen One" and hailing him as a saviour once more, naming him the sole voice of truth, forced to bear ridicule and slander. Conveniently ignoring the fact that it was _they_ who had done the ridiculing and slandering. It was pathetic.

Sighing in disgust, she tossed the paper down and finished her pie. She needed a walk on the grounds.

Before she could get up, an owl flew in through the mail hole at the top of the hall and headed for her. Her eyes widened and she paled at the black envelope it clutched in its talons.

With trembling fingers, she removed the envelope and paid no heed as the owl flew away. Tears flooded her eyes as she read that her family had been killed, the house burned down by Fiendfyre, leaving no survivors: Just another attack on Muggles by those _animals_.

She was truly all alone in the world now.

She rose numbly from the nearly empty Hufflepuff table and trudged out of the hall toward the grounds. What was she going to do now? She paid no heed to the numerous clusters of students, all whispering about the story in the paper about Harry Potter and Voldemort.

It was still an hour before curfew, so she headed out onto the grounds. The sun was just going down in a riot of colours over the lake. The air was soft and warm, not too hot yet and the humidity which crashed down over the area wasn't here. It was perfect strolling weather.

She noticed none of it, though. She might not have been very close to her family, especially after they had found out that she was a witch, but they were hers, and they were gone.

Her mind was blank; she had no idea what to do. She had no relatives in England; they were all very distant cousins in America or even Australia. This meant that she would no longer be able to attend Hogwarts.

That thought brought her up short. No longer attend Hogwarts? No longer be able to see Harry Potter? It was churlish of her to be thinking of Harry at a time like this, but she couldn't help it. Affairs of the heart followed no rules.

Could she go to him for asylum? By all account, he lived with his Muggle relatives, and conditions there were not … ideal. But he was the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, so he must own properties somewhere. She really did not want to leave Hogwarts. But, what could she do to get him on her side?

Just then, she heard quiet sobbing nearby, in a grove of trees by the lake. The sobs weren't loud, but they were heart-wrenching and full of grief. And even through the watery sounds, she thought she recognized their source: Harry Potter.

She felt her resolve firm. It was time to come out of the shadows and be counted. Picking up her pace, she headed for the sobs. She would do what was right, rather than what was easy, as the Headmaster had exhorted them to do last year. The easy thing would be to keep on watching from afar. But she wouldn't do that anymore. She would help Harry.

2

Harry Potter left the Headmaster's office, feeling numb. He knew he should be feeling something, anything at all. But he wasn't. He was just numb.

He felt like a crab which had been sucked dry by a starfish; utterly empty. He had led his friends into a trap, where they had to fight twelve Death Eaters. None of them except him and Luna Lovegood had escaped injury. Ginny had broken her ankle, Ron had gotten attacked by those weird brain things, Neville had a broken nose and a snapped wand, and Hermione had fallen to a vicious looking curse. Madam Pomfrey told Harry that it was an organ shredding curse, and that the power behind it had been weakened by the fact that Dolohov was silenced. It had done enough damage anyway though, that Hermione would have a scar for life.

None of that mattered though. Not really. What mattered more than anything else was the fact that his godfather Sirius Black had died, killed by his own psychotic cousin, and all because of Harry. If he had only remembered about the mirrors, if he had remembered that Snape was an Order member, if, if, if…

But most of the blame lay with Albus Bloody Dumbledore. Because Albus Bloody Dumbledore thought he was fucking god and only he knew what was best. Harry started to feel something now: cold anger. This wasn't the hot headed rage he was known for; this was a cold, calculating anger. He would never trust anything Dumbledore said, not anymore.

But, just as quickly as the anger came, it fled, leaving only sadness behind. There wasn't much he could do against Dumbledore, and he was too consumed with grief to do any sort of rational thinking.

Over the next day, Harry kept to himself, only putting in a token presence at the hospital wing, where Hermione was on a dozen different potions to treat her injury. Neville, Ron, Ginny and Luna had already left and were already hanging out with their own groups of friends. Harry was oddly conflicted; when he was with people he wanted to be alone, and when he was alone he wanted company. Most of the time, he just drifted along, not really thinking about much.

Memories of Sirius played out in his mind: Their first meeting; seeing him ride off on Buckbeak; meeting him occasionally over the next year; Christmas at Grimmauld Place ... For having known the man for only two years, Sirius had come to mean an awful lot to Harry. He was the only one, absolutely the only one, to not care about the bloody Boy-Who-Lived; to Sirius, he was just Harry, godson. Not even Ron and Hermione could say that.

Now, here it was, the night before the leaving feast and he was sitting by the lake, hidden in a patch of bushes, clutching his letters from Sirius. He had pulled them out of his trunk, along with the mirror, which he had just in time stopped himself from breaking in a fit of grief-fuelled rage. Here was the makeshift good luck card from the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, just a folded piece of parchment with a paw print, but it had meant so much to him back then.

It was all too much. Everything always seemed to happen to him, and he never caught a break. Even in his own head, it sounded whiny, but he couldn't help it. Didn't he deserve to feel a little whiny? Parents lost, relatives who hated him, people who only saw the scar that meant the Boy-Who's-Parents-Died, torn up in the press one day and put up on a pedestal the next, godfather dead, and finding out it was now either kill or be killed.

Harry put his head on his knees and wept. He hadn't allowed himself to really weep since he was a small child in his cupboard, and it all came pouring out of him. He didn't wail. His grief was too big to let it out all at once in a howl of agony, it seemed.

Warm arms suddenly came around him and pulled him into a soft body. He tensed briefly, but gentle hands stroked his hair. "It's OK, Harry, let it out," a soothing voice said into his ear. "Let it all out, Harry."

Tears fell onto his own head as they both wept together, Harry clutching desperately at whomever it was, not caring, only knowing that somebody was here to comfort him when he most needed it.

At long last, his tears dried up, petering out in sniffles and hitching gasps. Sitting up, he reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, blowing his nose and wiping his red, puffy eyes. He cleaned it with his wand and offered it to the girl who had hugged him, her shape only a blur without his glasses.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, sounding as choked up as he was, accepting the handkerchief and cleaning her face up.

"No, thank you," Harry croaked, his voice raspy from crying, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I'm sorry I cried all over you."

"It's OK," she said gently. "You looked like you needed it."

Putting his glasses back on, Harry studied the girl in front of him. He recognized her from the DA. She had medium length black hair, blue eyes and a slightly upturned nose, which, like his, was slightly red from crying. Full lips, which were smiling slightly, plump apple cheeks. Maybe a couple inches shorter than him. She was not wearing school robes, this being a weekend, and he felt his face heat up slightly as he saw the large breasts poking at her thin Muggle t-shirt, nipples firmly erect in the evening chill. He tried to remember her name, to distract himself.

"Sally-Anne Perks, right?" he asked.

She smiled more genuinely this time. "Right in one, I'm surprised you remembered. But call me Sally or Anne, both at once makes me sound pretentious."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Of course I remember. You were in the DA and I helped you with your Protego shield once."

A faint blush stained her own cheeks as she shifted nervously. Almost against his will, Harry felt his eyes track the jiggling motion of her breasts as she shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, I remember that."

Harry berated himself. _You're grief stricken; don't stare at her tits, Potter._

Shaking his head at himself, he dragged his mind back to the conversation and addressed Anne. "What brings you out here, anyway? Not that I'm not glad to see you or anything, just curious."

Anne hesitated. "I got some bad news earlier," she said finally. "My parents were killed yesterday. Somebody used Fiendfyre and burned their house down."

"I'm sorry, Anne," Harry said gently, taking her hand and squeezing it. He was inwardly surprised at his own daring; back in February he couldn't even bring himself to touch Cho at that horrible date in Madam Puddifoot's, and yet here he was, holding this girl's hand as easy as could be.

She blushed again and sniffled, but squeezed his hand back. "Thank you, Harry. I guess you do know how I feel, don't you?"

"I sure do," he said softly. "My godfather died earlier this week."

Anne nodded and shyly scooted closer, so her thigh was brushing his. Their hands still entwined. There was a comfortable silence for a while. The squid was doing lazy strokes across the lake. Somewhere near the castle, somebody was playing with a Weasley Wildfire Whiz-Bang. A soft breeze blew from the direction of the forest, bringing the mysterious scent of loam and trees.

"I started drifting apart from my family when we found out I was a witch," Anne said at last, breaking the silence. "They didn't denounce me or anything; we just … didn't move in the same circles, I guess you'd say. They were both insurance agents, you see, and well, we didn't have much in common anymore. They were happy when I brought home good marks, of course, but it wasn't the same thing anymore … d'you know what I'm saying?"

Harry nodded. "I think so. Getting good marks in Charms isn't the same thing as getting good marks in calculus or something."

"Exactly," Anne said. "It was all beyond their frame of reference. I wonder how common that is with Muggleborns."

"Pretty common, I'd think. Most Muggles have this idea that magic is this … thing that ought to come instantly to you without any effort. They don't understand that it's something we have to work at, and in extreme cases like my aunt and uncle, they don't want to understand it either."

Anne ducked her head and nodded. "I sort of figured that about you," she said, then, still staring at the ground, she said: "I have a confession to make, Harry."

Harry hadn't let go of her hand, and he gave it a squeeze. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it isn't that bad," he said gently.

"W-well, I've, uh, sort of been watching you off and on for the past five years," she said in a rush, then turned her face away, her cheeks burning red.

Harry took a deep breath and counted to ten. _I will not call her a rabid fan-girl, I will not call her a rabid fan-girl,_ he chanted in his head.

Finally, he asked simply: "Why?"

"I'm not a rabid Boy-Who-Lived groupie, I promise," she said, as if reading his mind. "I don't care about the Boy-Who-Lived. I would've watched you anyway, even if you weren't. It's just … well. When I first saw your name in the history books, I couldn't believe they celebrated the night your parents died. I mean, I get that they were actually celebrating the downfall of … Voldemort, but it still seemed silly to me."

She paused and took a deep breath. "I saw you that first day on the train and I thought you looked lost. And then I started watching you and how the school either hated or loved you with few in betweens and how you never seemed to catch a break."

Harry had calmed down by now and ran his hand through his hair. "I know, I was just thinking that a minute ago. Everything seems to happen to me."

Anne nodded. "Yeah; and when you made that comment on your relatives, I started thinking about how ragged you always looked and how, if you're supposed to be this great saviour, nobody seemed to care how you looked."

"Yeah, I always got my cousin's castoffs, and he's like five times bigger than me."

"Why haven't you done something about it?"

"Like what? I'm either here at Hogwarts or trapped at Privet Drive."

"Trapped?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, old Dumbledore decided to post guards to make sure his precious weapon didn't slip his control."

"Weapon? What the hell?"

"Yeah, apparently there's a prophecy that says I'm the only one to defeat Voldemort," Harry said, the weight of all his problems suddenly crashing back down on him. "I found that out just a few minutes ago, right after watching my godfather killed in front of me."

"OH my god, that's horrible," Anne said, sniffling again.. "So the paper's write, you _are_ the 'chosen one'. And you having to find that out after watching your godfather die … my god Harry.""

"I guess so," Harry said morosely. "Not much I can do about it I guess."

"Oh Harry, it's always you, isn't it?" Anne shifted and pulled him into a hug.

Something in Harry gave way then. Perhaps it was a combination of circumstances. Here was this girl, who he hadn't even noticed before, coming to him out of the blue. And that was quite remarkable in itself, wasn't it? Ten years growing up with Harry Hunting and he hadn't spotted the fact that this girl had been watching him for five years. She didn't come across as a fan-girl either, just a girl crushing on a guy, any ordinary guy. And any release from the grief that had been crushing his heart was welcome.

His experience with holding girls was limited to Cho, Ginny and Hermione, neither of whom had felt this good. All three of them adhered to the skinny is good philosophy, and holding them had felt rather like embracing a sack of hangers.

Not Anne, though. She was big and pillowy and soft, and she smelled wonderfully of vanilla. Harry felt his pants tighten uncomfortably as the heavy mounds of her breasts squished against him. The embrace didn't last long, since they were both sitting on the ground, but it left him feeling fevered and thoroughly excited.

Anne looked flushed too, and both their breathing had quickened. "Uh, I'm sorry," she said, looking nervously away.

Harry debated with himself, and then decided, what the hell. If he was going to defeat Voldemort or die trying, why not live a little? Here was this absolutely hot girl, who had a crush on just Harry. Run with the situation.

Taking Anne's chin in his hand and marvelling at her soft warm skin, Harry brought her around to face him. Green eyes met blue and held, each of them sinking into the other's gaze. They both saw a desperate vulnerability, a desire for the affirmation of life in the face of death. Perhaps it was all very sudden, and in the ordinary course of things, it wouldn't have happened the way it did, but they were both very needy people, and they both felt that the other was just the antidote for what ailed them.

Slowly, they leaned toward each other and their lips met, both sets of eyes closing. A catlike purr of satisfaction issued from deep within Anne's chest. Harry's hands, seemingly of their own volition, found their way into the soft mass of her hair and buried themselves there, cupping the back of her neck and running down her back. Anne's hand came up to also bury itself in Harry's messy hair and tugged him closer gently.

The kiss was sweet, gentle, yet passionate. Anne's tongue shyly darted out, and Harry opened his mouth to let it in. She tasted of strawberries and sunshine, of dreams and desires yet to be discovered. In short, it was a far cry from kissing the walking hosepipe, also known as Cho Chang.

The kiss was broken by the rather important, if inconvenient, need for oxygen. Anne was breathing hard, her cheeks and neck flushed, her bountiful breasts heaving, and her lips puffed up, eyes glazed slightly. Harry was little better. He could feel his heart pounding in his temples, and he was alternately flashing hot and cold, as if he was suffering from a tropical fever. His cock was an iron bar in his pants, his balls ached dully.

"Wow," Anne whispered, touching her lips tentatively, like she didn't believe it.

"Yeah," Harry said, sounding hoarse. "Wow."

Their eyes met again, and, without needing to say anything, they rose together, took each other's hand and set off for the castle.

3

They ended up on the seventh floor, of course. Harry paced in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, not really thinking of anything in particular except Anne's wonderful lips, but the room caught on and a door appeared with a faint pop.

Harry had to bite back a laugh when they walked in. Taking up one side of the well-appointed room was a gigantic four-poster bed with red and yellow hangings. Off to another side was a table with a bench seat, and in another corner was a Jacuzzi. On a shelf above the bed were ranged a number of massage oils and mysterious objects that Harry guessed were sex toys. The whole room was lit with an amorphous low level light that promised to reveal everything, if only you'd step a little closer. Soft music played, coming seemingly from the air itself. Room of Requirement, indeed.

They looked at each other, and blushed madly, before Harry raised an eyebrow. Nodding, Anne stepped in and shut the door, which sealed with a satisfying squelch.

Harry shyly took her hand and led her toward a love seat, both of them still blushing. Anne was suffering from conflicting emotions. On one hand, she was more horny than she could ever remember being. Her twat was soaked, rubbing with delicious fiction on her panties. But, on the other hand, she was terrified that Harry would reject her for being too fat; she was more than twice his size, after all. One of her thighs was as big as his waist, for Merlin's sake! Or at least that's what it felt like to her.

All doubts were swept away though, along with any other coherent thought, when Harry pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again. Their hands roamed a little more freely this time, Harry grabbing as much of her ass as he could, Anne's hands finding their way inside his shirt and gripping his back with lustful tightness, her hips wriggling involuntarily. Her heart pounded wildly, and she could feel her pussy throbbing between her legs. Harry was no longer the skinny boy she remembered, but a lean, well-muscled, if not bulky young man. Years of Quidditch and especially this year with the DA had toned him up a great deal. The feel of him made her knees weak.

Harry, for his part, was absolutely entranced with the girl in his arms. He was rather ashamed of himself for bowing to the stereotype that skinny girls were the best and only desirable partners. Sure, Cho and Ginny were beautiful girls, but they had nothing on Anne. Both of them had pretty faces, but were built rather like boys. That was pretty interesting in Ginny's case, given who her mother was.

Anne's breasts were the biggest ones he'd ever laid eyes on, at least in this castle full of teenage girls, and he cursed Hogwarts robes for hiding so much. Her arms were soft, like small pillows. Her hips were broad and her buttocks stuck out behind her in high, round mounds.. She wasn't saggy at all either; all that walking up and down Hogwarts' many staircases saw to that. She was just … big. She was like an Earth Mother, like ice cream on a hot day. Harry couldn't get enough.

"Merlin, you're beautiful," Harry croaked, when they came up for air again. "I'm sorry I never noticed you before."

It didn't even cross her mind to question him, when she saw the absolute sincerity and naked lust shining in his green orbs. Later she might, but now it didn't matter, Harry Potter, the guy she had wanted for a couple of years now, wanted her back. All the worries about her situation, all her worries about what she was going to do now that she had no family, were swept away in a tide of long pent up desire.

"Thank you, Harry," she whispered, tilting her flushed face up to him. "You don't know how long I've waited for you to say that."

"Tell me," he said into her ear, sending goose bumps down her spine.

"Since the end of second year," she whispered back, blushing even more brightly, but determined to always tell him the truth.

"Wow. I'm very, very lucky," he said reverently, tracing her cheeks with the pad of a calloused thumb.

"No, I'm the lucky one," she answered, smiling winningly up at him.

"I think we're both lucky," he said in a husky voice, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"I can live with that," she whispered.

Slowly, her eyes asking for permission, Anne reached out for Harry's shirt. Harry raised his arms and let it fall, adjusting his glasses so they didn't get pulled off with the shirt.

Stepping close, Anne breathed heavily as she traced her fingertips lightly over Harry's upper body, leaving a trail of goose bumps in her wake. She had never so much as kissed a boy on the cheek, and here she was, stripping one. But it felt so right, and she wasn't going to question anymore.

She ran her fingers gently over the various scars on his body, kissing each one as she left it. For the first time, Harry was not self conscious. His heart was pounding and his palms were slightly damp, but not with nervousness. Well, not much.

"Like what you see?" he asked.

"Oh, most definitely yes," Anne breathed, kissing the scar where Wormtail had cut him last year. Harry didn't care about Wormtail. All he cared about was this amazing woman doing even more amazing things to him.

She stroked and nibbled her way across his belly, making the skin quiver like something was alive under it, before arriving at the waistband of his jeans. She was on her knees, and she looked up at Harry, her lips parted as she breathed quickly. May I?"

Harry nodded, barely able to speak at the erotic sight in front of him. It felt like his cock was going to burst free of its cloth prison all by itself. It felt like if she so much as breathed on it, he would shoot off like a rocket all over her.

She took off his shoes and socks first, tossing them impatiently to one side.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the button at the waistband of his jeans. Her knuckles brushed against his belly, making the skin there jump again, and also making his cock twitch. Slowly, she undid the top button and slid the zipper down, following its progress with her hungry eyes.

The white briefs soon came into view, then the bulge in them. Anne had seen a few naughty magazines in the Muggle world, not to mention a few risqué photographs around the girls' dorms. In these photos, the men all looked like they had summer sausages down their pants, and Anne had wondered how the hell women could stand to have those things inserted in them.

Harry wasn't like that. She brushed her hand over the bulge in his briefs as she pushed his jeans down, pulling them over his feet. It was pulsing in front of her and looked to be a good six or seven inches long, and not too thick, about average, according to the reading she'd done.

Finally, she was about to unveil the grand prize. Her inner muscles clenched as she took in the sight of his cock, pulsing and barely constrained in the tight briefs. Slowly, she reached up and took hold of the elastic and brought them down. And he was naked before her.

She ran her hands over his toned muscular thighs. All those years of sitting a broom had made his leg muscles huge. She felt him quiver underneath her hands and revelled in the power she had over him. She had no more doubts about her desirability, now. The hard cock bouncing in front of her and the heavy breathing of the man attached to it put paid to all that.

"Wow, Harry. You're gorgeous," she breathed, sliding around to cup the globes of his hard bum. "I can't believe what you've been hiding all this time."

"Th-thanks," Harry said, feeling a little embarrassed, but not doubting her sincerity. "I'm glad you like me. And I'm glad I've done some growing up."

"Oh yeah, you sure have," she said, coming back to stand in front of him, bosom heaving and slight beads of sweat standing on her forehead. "Now, it's your turn."

Harry's breath hitched and his cock jumped. They both laughed. "It's got a mind of its own, I think," Harry said.

"Well, hurry up so you can put your basilisk in my Chamber of Secrets," Anne breathed huskily, giving him a saucy wink.

Groaning at the horrible line, Harry tentatively reached out and gripped the hem of Anne's t-shirt. He lifted it up slowly and raised it over her head, tossing it to the floor. And gaped.

Harry had always known that girls matured faster than blokes. And he had always known that witches matured faster than Muggle girls. But he really saw the evidence for this in Anne.

Her enormous breasts pointed straight at him, due to the magical bra she was wearing. Unlike Muggle bras, they had a built in enhancement charm instead of underwires, making for a much more comfortable experience. They worked on the witch's own magic though, so Muggles couldn't use them. If Harry had to guess, Anne was at least an E cup.

"Holy damn, Anne," he murmured reverently. "They're huge."

Anne giggled. Her hand snaked out and stroked his penis, collecting a sizable drop of precum, which she proceeded to lick off her fingers. "I'm glad you like me," she echoed him, her eyes dancing. "And I'm glad I've done some growing up."

"I'll say you have. I had no idea you were hiding all this," he said, gesturing at her breasts.

"Well, are you going to unwrap me, Harry?" she asked, bouncing slightly so that her breasts jiggled.

"Absolutely," he said. "Wild hippogriffs wouldn't stop me."

Harry moved closer and reached for her breasts. They were heavy indeed, overflowing his hands in warm flesh. Unhooking the bra took some doing, but with much giggling on both their parts, he got it undone. Her belly was round and firm, like a small drum, and her breasts rested on top of it, creating a succulent valley of flesh in between, which Harry licked and nibbled on, making Anne's knees a little weak. Her nipples were like pencil erasers and very sensitive as well. Harry hefted a breast in one hand and suckled on it, tweaking the other nipple and making Anne pant a little. He could smell the scent of her arousal and it was getting him even more worked up than playing with her breasts. He felt more powerful than when he was casting a Patronus, that he could make this woman into putty in his hands.

Moving behind her, he rubbed away the creases from her bra on the skin of her back, making her sigh in contentment and arch her back like a cat. She had strong shoulders, broad but not mannish, from carrying her books around. Her neck was delicate and smooth, and he nibbled on the back of it just under the hairline, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin. Anne writhed in pleasure, mewing in excitement, as Harry worked his lips and teeth and tongue over the tops of her shoulders and into the little valley where shoulder met neck.

Still standing behind her, Harry brought his arms around her waist in a full body hug, his hard cock pressing against her soft arse. Anne ground back against him, making him moan huskily in her ear. "Be careful doing that, babe, or I might lose it," he warned, nibbling her earlobe.

"You're young and will recover quickly," she breathed back, still grinding.

"With you as my inspiration, how could I not," he said, meeting her thrusts with his own. This was his first sexual contact, and, true to prediction, he didn't last long. He never knew when his … relatives might come busting in, so he never really got into the habit of wanking much. The only times he did it was in the shower, where he had a door locked on the inside, and nobody could come crashing in.

His breathing quickened and he felt the familiar tightening in his belly. His hands rose and began kneading her breasts, tugging the nipples and running his nails along the sensitive undersides, and nibbling her neck and shoulder.

As first orgasms went, it was rather awkward. He spurted spectacularly all over the back of her skirt and dripped onto the floor. They both laughed about it, though Harry was very red faced with embarrassment. Anne Scourgified the mess away and discretely cast a contraception charm on herself at the same time.

"Don't worry about it, Harry. I'm very flattered that I could bring you to that," she soothed, hugging him and whispering in his ear. "And look, you're all ready to go again," she giggled. "I told you, you would be."

Sure enough, he was already up again, his cock standing proudly once more. "Is this where I should go, 'yes dear, you're always right'?" he asked, smiling slightly.

"Absolutely," she said, laughing and ruffling his hair. "Seriously, Harry, don't worry about it. You'll be able to really take your time when you get inside me," she purred.

"Oh Merlin, I'll probably explode when that happens," he muttered, gazing at her like she was the most precious thing in the universe.

Anne blushed. "You'll take me right along with you," she murmured, gazing back at him.

Harry mimicked her position from earlier and dropped to his knees in front of her. Her thighs were like elegant pillars, firm and soft at the same time, from all that staircase climbing. Her scent was intoxicating and he breathed deeply, feeling his head spin.

He pulled off her sturdy school shoes and, like she had done, tossed them impatiently off to the side.

With shaking hands, he reached for the buttons on the side of her skirt and undid them one by one, until it came down in a puddle around her ankles. She was wearing practical underwear, for she was a practical girl. Her scent was stronger and he was nearly drunk with it.

And then it was time to unveil his own prize. He reached up and took hold of the waistband and slowly pulled her underwear down.

"Oh, Merlin," he breathed, rocking back on his heels. "You are so beautiful, Anne."

Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, and it was shiny with her juices. Harry, feeling helpless to resist, buried his nose in her neat bush and lapped at it. She tasted heavenly. Anne moaned and quivered above him.

Crabbing around behind her, he took in the sight of her naked arse. It was wide, firm, and smooth, with lovely dimples. He hefted the heavy cheeks and kneaded them, his pulse pounding in his ears, and nibbled each one, cauzing her to break out in goose bumps and making her squirm and giggle. The cleft was deep, and he ran a finger through it, making her squirm and clench. Harry watched the big muscles of her legs quivering, and grinned with satisfaction. This was the first naked woman he'd ever seen, and he took his time exploring every mysterious inch.

"I'll say it again," he said, rising from the floor and standing in front of her, drinking her in with his eyes, "you're absolutely stunning."

"Thank you," she said simply. "Now, come here. I want to give you my virginity, Harry." "I want that very much."

Taking her hand, he led her toward the massive bed with the yellow and red hangings. It was covered in a variety of pillows with different embroidery, and only a thin blanket. The room was comfortable, so more covers weren't needed.

He guided Anne to sit on the edge of the bed and moved between her legs. Taking her chin in one hand, he leaned down and kissed her, his other hand roaming restlessly over her lush curves, with hers doing the same to him. Before long, they had moved to the middle of the bed, Anne was on her back and Harry was licking and nibbling his way down her body. Then, at last, he had reached her fiery centre.

Anne tucked her ankles against her buttocks and spread her knees wide, granting Harry access. She was panting with need, her hips jerking involuntarily, as Harry began nibbling up her inner thighs. She wanted this man to have her, and she wanted it now. It was all she could do not to grab him and force him into her.

Harry, meanwhile, was finding it difficult not to charge ahead and pound into her. But he'd sneaked some glances at Seamus' girly magazines and all of them said they liked to go slow, their first time.

Harry blew a slow trickle of air at Anne's pussy lips, making her moan his name and her hips writhe. And finally, he spread her lips open.

She was absolutely soaked. Her juices ran down the crack of her bum and pooled on the bed beneath her. She smelled divine and Harry dove in with his tongue. Then, an absolutely wicked thought flicked into his lust-addled brain: Parseltongue. It was time to see if Anne thought it was evil.

Picturing a snake in his mind, Harry began to whisper about Anne's body in Parseltongue, causing his tongue to vibrate over her pussy. The results were galvanic. Her big thighs clamped over his ears, her hands fisted in his hair, and the juices poured out of her, drenching his nose and face. It was absolutely intoxicating.

Finally, she came down, her arse coming back to rest on the bed, her thighs relaxing and her fists unclenching. Harry came up, grinning wickedly at her, his face shiny with her juices. "Mmmm," he said, licking his lips lasciviously. "That was amazing. And you taste wonderful."

"What the hell was that, Harry?" she asked. Her face and chest were flushed and he could see a pulse beating rapidly in her throat.

"That, my dear Anne, was Parseltongue," Harry grinned, coming up to lie on top of her, his cock coming to rest in the valley between her thighs along her slit, which was still soaked. "It has other uses than scaring idiot second years at a duelling club."

Anne laughed shakily. "I'll say it does … wow. That was absolutely amazing."

"Thank you. Since snakes can't really hear, Parseltongue is actually magical vibrations. So nobody else without the magical gift can imitate it, I don't care what they say. All anyone without the magical gift will be able to do is go 'sssss', that's all."

"That's very interesting, Harry, and I'm glad you told me, but will you please stop torturing me and bury that cock of yours inside me?" Anne asked, jerking her hips upward. She was feeling very bold, and she wanted him in her, now.

"Yes, I'd love to," Harry said, forgetting all about Parseltongue. He had been sliding along her slit, doing his best not to come again all over her, and the Parseltongue mini lecture was a good way to distract himself.

"Thank you," Anne said, spreading her legs again and tucking her ankles against her bum.

Harry rose off her, and took himself in hand. He paused for a moment, just gazing at her. She was sprawled in front of him, breasts heaving and flushed, nipples jutting up like pencil points, hair spread in a halo around her head. In short, she was absolutely, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Some dim part of his mind marvelled at himself. Here he was, the one who stammered and made a fool of himself in front of girls, about to fuck one, and not feeling at all tongue-tied. Who would've thought it?

"Well? What're you waiting for?" Anne asked, wiggling her hips at him. And Harry needed no further urging. He slipped inside her and threw his head back and moaned.

Anne hissed in a breath of air through clenched teeth as her hymen was broken, but the pain disappeared quickly. "Don't worry about me, Harry," she said, noticing his concerned look. "It happens like that, the first time. Keep going."

Harry nodded and pushed further inside. Entering her was like slipping into a long forgotten dream. Her inner walls wrapped snugly around him. He couldn't believe how wonderful it felt.

Harry began to move within Anne, sliding in and out with delicious friction. Her legs came up and wrapped around his waist, her powerful thighs tugging him closer. "God, Harry, you feel so good," she said through her heavy breathing.

Harry didn't answer, couldn't. He was concentrating with all his might on not shooting his load. As clueless as he was around girls, even he knew that they wouldn't be impressed if you fired off within ten seconds of first penetration.

Finally, he had himself under control by listing potion ingredients, and began to move faster within Anne. He hoped she wouldn't need long to orgasm though, as his makeshift postponement wouldn't last long; the girl was just too hot for words.

Indeed, Anne was dangerously close to the edge. She had come out to the lake only an hour ago, and her sadness at the loss of her family had morphed into a raging torrent of lust, love, and desire. The petting and playing and slow undressing had worked their magic on her, and she was a bubbling stew of wild emotions. Her heartbeat was picking up, her pussy was dripping again, and Harry was pressing into her clit as he bottomed out at the end of each thrust.

Harry, meanwhile, was also rapidly losing his cool, thrusting wildly into Anne and kneading her breasts restlessly. He felt the gathering tingle at the base of his spine, as his balls tightened. No listing of potion ingredients was going to stop this one. His back arched as he gave one last, hard thrust, as their bellies clapped together with a loud _smack_. His buttocks tightened, his head flew back and his hands tightened on Anne's arms. "Oh, Anne, you're so fucking hot," he hissed out through clenched teeth, and let everything go at once. His cock pulsed wildly, spewing spurt after spurt of hot cum deep into Anne's pussy, which tightened around him with exquisite agony. It seemed to last forever as he fired what felt like a gallon into her, but at long last, he softened and fell out of her, with a wet plop.

"Ahhhh," she nearly screamed, hips arching high off the bed and nearly throwing Harry off her as her own orgasm hit. It seemed to last forever, as her perception of reality splintered apart, leaving only a collection of bright lights firing off in her brain. Her muscles spasmed madly and she was barely aware that Harry had rolled off, panting like a race horse.

"Dear Merlin that was fucking incredible," Harry breathed, after catching his breath a bit.

Anne rolled over, secretly relishing their combined fluids dripping out of her sopping pussy. She drew Harry to her and buried her head in his shoulder. She couldn't believe the speed with which the preceding events had taken place. One moment, she was thinking about her loss of family, the next moment, she was up in the Room of Requirement getting shagged by Harry Potter, her secret crush. It was surreal.

"Yes it was," she said, her hand petting his back. "I feel so good right now, Harry. Thank you."

"No, I ought to thank you. You gave me a very precious gift," Harry said into her hair.

Harry felt Anne smile into his chest. She hugged him tighter, pressing his wet cock between them. It was well used though, and only twitched a bit. "You're welcome, then," she said. "Although I still think I got the better deal."

"Oh?"

"You made me feel like I wasn't just drifting along from day to day … You made me feel beautiful, Harry, and desired."

Harry hugged her back. "You're incredibly beautiful, Anne, and I apologize for not noticing you for all our time at Hogwarts. I hope you don't want this to be our only encounter."

He felt the heat of her blush. "It's OK, Harry," she said softly, moving up so they were eye to eye. "I watched you off and on, but I never spoke to you, never sought you out, so it's mostly my fault."

"No, I don't want this to be our only encounter. I … I want to explore what we could have, but-"

Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Harry, I almost forgot my family was gone. What's wrong with me?" she wailed.

Alarmed, Harry drew her to him and let her cry on his shoulder, making soothing noises. His own grief came back on him too, but this time it was bittersweet. He had no doubt Sirius would've congratulated him and clapped him on the back with his trademark bark-like laugh. Together, they wept for what they'd lost, clinging to each other desperately, each the other's affirmation that life did go on in the face of tragedy.

Finally, both their tears dried up and they stared at each other. "They would've wanted us to be happy, I think," Harry said softly. "I don't regret what we've done, Anne. I hope you don't think any less of me now."

"Never, Harry," she whispered, gazing into his green eyes. "It's just … what we just did … it's not like me at all and I thought that … in books I read…"

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, I don't regret what we did either. I was really messing that up, wasn't I? And life isn't like a storybook, I know that. What I mean to say is, I couldn't ever think badly of you. What we just had was very special and I'd like to explore what we could build. It's just that it was all so sudden, with the loss of both our families and everything."

Harry stroked her hair while she talked and thought carefully. "I know what you mean, and I want to explore what we might have, as well. You don't have to feel guilty though, Anne. Both our families would want us to be happy, I think, and not mourn them too much. You helped pull me out of a very dark place, and for that I thank you."

She smiled for the first time. "You're very welcome, Harry," she said, and they kissed. And for two lonely teenagers in the midst of war, life grew a little brighter. Neither knew what the future would hold, but they were sure of one thing: they would face it together, come what may.

THE END


	8. Just a Weapon

**Just a Weapon**

By Opopanax

A/n:This story is the result of a conversation between my beta and I, where we speculated on what an over the top manipulative!Dumbledore might do.

Warnings for adult themes and major OOC. This fic is not for the faint of heart. Dark.

* * *

1: Capture

"Harry, will you come down and mind the bacon, dear? I need to finish wrapping your cousin's birthday present."

"No problem, Aunt Petunia," came a child's voice.

Shortly thereafter, a thin but healthy looking boy with messy black hair and green eyes scampered down the stairs, tucking in his shirt as he went. "Happy birthday, Dudley," he said, waving at his larger cousin, who was watching cartoons in the living room.

"Thanks, Harry," Dudley said, smiling back and waving a piece of toast.

Harry whistled and bounced into the kitchen. "Oh, there you are, Dear," Aunt Petunia, looking a little harried, said, handing him the spatula and bustling out into the living room. "Make sure it doesn't burn!"

Harry turned the bacon and was frying eggs by the time Uncle Vernon ambled into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. "Morning Harry," he said from behind his newspaper.

"Hey Uncle Vernon," Harry nodded back, sliding him a plate of bacon and eggs.

"Now, now, Harry you must eat more than this," Aunt Petunia tutted, clicking her tongue and sliding a bigger plate of bacon toward him. "You're already too thin, dear."

Chuckling, Harry acquiesced and dug in. "I can't help it, Aunt Petunia," he said around a strip of bacon. "I'm just naturally wiry."

Dudley snorted. "You're scrawny is what you are, Harry," he said, bopping Harry affectionately on the shoulder. "You look like you might've been raised in a cupboard."

"What a thing to say," Uncle Vernon scolded, "As if we'd do such a thing."

Dudley laughed into his toast. "I know. Just imagine, making a poor kid sleep in the cupboard under the stairs."

"Ew, horrible," Harry said.

"I loved my sister and wouldn't ever do something like that to her son," Aunt Petunia said, ruffling his hair.

"I know you wouldn't. It's just a shame they aren't here to be with us today," Harry said, indicating Dudley, who was eyeing his presents. "It's a good thing that Voldemort fellow is gone."

"Well, enough depressing talk!" said Uncle Vernon heartily. "Open up your presents, Dudley."

The whole family moved into the living room and watched Dudley open up his birthday presents, cheering with him as he got a new bicycle and a new Nintendo. Dudley graciously offered to let Harry try it out with him, and they spent an enjoyable hour getting the holy hell beat out of them by Mario Brothers.

And then everything went to hell.

Just as they were sitting down to lunch, loud cracks sounded from the front of the house. The door blasted off its hinges and crashed on the floor, breaking into pieces. Aunt Petunia screamed and Harry whirled to see three figures in long black robes and white masks come charging into the dining room, wands raised: Death Eaters. He had been told about them by his aunt. The followers of Voldemort the man who had killed his parents, and had given him the funny scar on his head.

"So, the Boy-Who-Lived, living with filthy Muggles," one of the men sneered from behind his mask, "How very disappointing."

"Get out of my house!" Uncle Vernon roared, jumping up and rushing at one of the Death Eaters.

"_Crucio_," incanted one of the men lazily. Uncle Vernon collapsed to the floor, screaming and twitching. Dudley stood behind Harry, eyes wide, watching his father being tortured. Aunt Petunia was still sitting at the table, a cup of tea held in one frozen hand, gaping at the three masked intruders.

Harry was standing, having risen when he heard the door break down. Now, he rushed at one of the men, all the while cursing himself inwardly for not having any sense. These were fully trained, armed wizards, and he was just a scrawny nine-year-old. What the hell was he going to do?

Sure enough, another masked Death Eater turned idly and said, "_Crucio_," and Harry joined Uncle Vernon on the floor, screaming in agony.

"You know, this is boring," commented one of the Death Eaters. "We ought to liven things up a little."

A low laugh, "Yeah, ever since the Dark Lord fell things have been so fucking boring, I agree," one of them said. Harry was still twitching in pain from the after effects of the Cruciatus. The worst Unforgiveable, as his aunt, who had heard about them from her sister, had told him.

"Want to take Potter home with us for some entertainment?"

"Why, what an excellent idea! But first-Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!" And just like that Harry Potter had no more living relatives. And then everything went black.

# # #

He awoke in pain. That was the first thing that came to him. He was in real pain, not the weird painful non-pain from the Cruciatus. Cracking open his eyes took some doing, as they were gummed shut with something that he feared might be his own blood.

He felt a horrible lurch in his stomach when he realized just what his situation was.

He was shackled, arms behind his back, to a stone wall. Rather than bind his wrists together, his arms were cross in an x behind and over his head and shackled in such a way so that he hung from his shoulders, bent at odd angles. And, no sooner did he become aware of this when his shoulders started to burn horribly. His feet were a scant two inches above the floor, but stretching down those two inches would likely dislocate his arms. His glasses were missing and everything was slightly blurry but he could see well enough. _I'm in deep shit now_, he thought dismally. The memory of his family's murder slammed into him then, and his eyes watered. He was all alone in the world now. All alone, thanks to the insane followers of an even more insane Voldemort.

He lifted his head to take in the rest of the room. A hissing pair of torches hung above a huge iron clad door on the opposite wall. The floor was covered with a layer of fetid straw. Harry didn't pay much attention to the décor, however; he was too busy crying in agony at the pain in his shoulders and of his memories. With each passing second, it seemed to ratchet up higher and higher as he hung from his arms in their unnatural position. After little more than five minutes, he would've done absolutely anything to escape this torture. His memories of his loving family, all the times they spent together, all the gifts and happy dinners and television nights, receded into the background, dulled by the excruciating agony in his arms.

Sometime later, he never knew how long, the door creaked open and a man in a white mask stepped into the small stone room. "So glad you're awake, Potter," he sneered. "How are you enjoying our hospitality?"

In spite of the agony and his thought a minute ago that he would've done anything to escape this torture, Harry's rage blossomed anew at the sight of one of his family's killers. "Go to hell, wanker," he said, using a word he had overheard his uncle use on a motorcyclist the other day, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulders.

The man in the mask laughed. "Such spirit, Potter, my, my. Well, enjoy it while it lasts," he said. "You will be broken soon enough."

"Like hell," harry ground out.

The man laughed again. "Yes, definitely a spirited little thing, aren't you? No matter, no matter. You do not understand your situation, Mr. Potter. You see, you are held prisoner here, and I and my colleagues are going to show you what it means to become the Dark Lord's most devoted follower, at least when he returns."

Harry laughed through the pain. "You're mad; I'd never join the bastard who killed my parents."

The man abruptly swung a hand and smashed Harry across the face. "You will respect the Dark Lord, or this will be the least of your punishment," he snarled. "Let me tell you how it's going to be."

"You will call me Sir. You will call the Dark Lord Master. You will do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you and do it without complaint. You will do whatever any of my colleagues tells you, when they tell you to do it, without complaint. Are we clear?"

"Fuck off," Harry snapped. His Aunt had washed his mouth out with soap once for using nasty words like that, but in this situation he thought it fit.

The man smiled, as if expecting no other answer. "As you would have it, Potter." Abruptly the shackles let go and harry screamed as his weight suddenly came off his arms, and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. The pain soared to new agonizing heights and Harry thought he might pass out.

Suddenly, the room was full of masked men, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. They all fell on him, ripping his clothes off with painful force, yelling insults at him at top volume, pummelling him with their fists. His clothes were torn into tatters, leaving him naked in a heap on the floor.

"Stand up, Potter, now!" his original captor shouted, "Now, right fucking now!"

Harry didn't move. They yanked him up anyway and hit him with a Body Bind curse, so he couldn't move. They then started circling him, laughing and pointing at his tiny penis. "Look at that, isn't it cute," one of them sneered in a mock baby voice. "Little wee Potter; you'll never be able to get any girls with that."

"Maybe he doesn't like girls," one of them sneered, getting up in Harry's personal space and fondling his testicles and penis intimately. "Do you like this, little Harry?" he asked, breathing scotch and onion fumes through his silken mask, "hm?"

Harry stood there, petrified and not able to do a thing, as they laughed and pointed, leaving him feeling utterly humiliated and defenceless.

Finally, they stopped. The Body Bind was taken off and he hurriedly covered his privates with his hands.

"Ah ah," one of them said, slapping his hands away. "You don't want to hide yourself now; we've already seen it all."

"Now, we need to take care of something, Potter," another figure said, pulling out a shiny metal collar and snapping it around Harry's neck. "This was developed by a friend of ours, just for you."

Harry felt something twist inside him, and then he felt a horrible emptiness, like one of his organs had just been removed.

"That locked away your magical core, Potter. No more accidental magic," he said, chuckling. "We can, however, use it against you. Like so."

Abruptly Harry felt like every nerve, every fibre of every muscle and every blood vessel was simultaneously on fire and pierced with knives carrying an electrical charge. He fell onto the floor, screaming so loudly that he thought his throat would burst. His head felt like it might explode. His eyes bugged out of his sockets. Blood dripped from his nostrils. And the pain cranked up another notch. And another. He longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness, but just when he thought he would pass out, something jerked him back into the agony.

And then it shut off abruptly. He was left twitching on the floor, blood flowing from his nose in freshets, head ringing and eyes watering, throat raw from screaming.

"That, Potter, was your own magic working against you," one of the masked men said, chuckling darkly. "Any time you do something we don't wish you to, that will happen. You have no control over your magic anymore; it belongs to us, now. What've you got to say for yourself?"

Harry didn't answer. He was damned if he would give these animals the satisfaction. They could torture him all they wanted; he would not give in. Never!

And then the pain started up again. Magic, his own magic, coursed through him, searing everything in its wake, leaving him screaming on the floor, more blood oozing out his nose and ears and eyes.

"I said, what've you got to say?" the man roared, kicking Harry in the ribs. Harry felt one pop with a wet crack.

"Fuck off, son of a bitch," Harry said hoarsely. His voice was little more than a hiss of air by now. It started all over again. Harry didn't know how long it lasted until he was finally allowed to pass out.

# # #

With a gasp, Harry came awake sometime later. He was shackled against the wall again, naked and freezing. Standing in front of him was a masked Death Eater holding a large steel bucket. It was obvious that he had thrown water on him to wake up.

"Ah, awake at last, Potter," he jeered with a malicious grin. "Now, it's time for your real training to begin."

The shackles unlocked and Harry once again fell to the floor. He was too weak from blood loss and muscle spasms to do anything. Even at rest, his arms and legs twitched like a spider on a hot stove. His joints were in fiery agony from being locked in the unnatural position by the shackles.

"Get up, Potter, now."

Harry didn't move. The collar heated up and more knives of his own magic seared through his body. "I said get up," the man said, turning off the collar.

Harry struggled and finally managed to get up off the floor, leaning against the wall, his legs shaking madly.

"Now, you need to come to an appreciation of the circumstances you now find yourself in," the man said in a cool, detached voice. "You need to realize that anything you get is by our grace alone, and that you no longer have any say in your life."

He pulled a chain out of his pocket. It had a hook on one end and a ring over the other. With dull detachment, Harry realized it was a leash; A dog leash. A dog leash for him.

The man hooked one end of the leash to his collar and hung the other end on a ring in the wall.

"Now, your own magic will punish you for going against any of our wishes. It is our wish that you not take that chain off the ring. If you don't follow our wishes … well, you had a sample of what we can do with your own magic."

He pointed at the open door. "For the next two hours, try to make it to that doorway. If you do so, you may go, with our apologies. If you don't try, this is what we'll do."

Abruptly the magic came on, but not as hard as before, making Harry buckle in agony, pulling the chain taught and strangling him with the collar. It lasted only a few seconds, but that was bad enough. "Begin," the man said, leaning against the wall.

After catching his breath, Harry looked at the doorway. It seemed to be a thousand miles away, the expanse of straw-covered floor between him and it seemed to stretch on forever.

The first thing he did was try to walk to the door. The pain caught him before the chain was even taut, dropping him to his knees. He knelt there, panting, until the man started to straighten, then he quickly got to his feet and got back on the clear spot of floor. The pain eased.

That wasn't going to work. Abruptly he swung a closed fist upward at the chain, knocking it off the ring.

The pain was agonizing. Harry crawled across the floor desperately, breaking his fingernails on the stone and filling his mouth with the blood covered straw.

He only made it three feet before the pain got to be too much. "Please," he gasped, more blood pouring out his ears, "please help me."

The man lazily straightened up from against the wall and dragged a writhing Harry by the chain and hooked it to the ring in the wall. The pain instantly shut off and Harry was left gasping on the floor, bloody snot running out of his nose and tears pouring from his eyes.

"Tsk, tsk, Potter," the man clucked, standing over him. He was sneering maliciously behind his mask while Harry twitched. "That was only ten minutes, Potter, very disappointing, very disappointing indeed. I would've expected better from the hero of the wizarding world," he finished, making air quotes.

"Since I had to help you, the two hours start over again. Any more times I have to help you the time gets increased by an hour."

If there was a way to get to the doorway, Harry hadn't found it in the two hours. He was left a weak, bleeding mess on the floor, while the man laughed in the corner and others chortled in the hallway.

"You see, Harry? You cannot escape us," the man said, gesturing grandly at his prison. "Everything you get will be at our discretion."

"Now, it's time to show you what you have to look forward to. This collar, you see, does far more than block your magic. Allow me to demonstrate."

Over the next six hours, Harry was shown the wonders of his new collar. How, if his torturer wished it, pain could be sent to various parts of his body. How he couldn't pass out unless it was wished for by the collar's wielder. How, if he persisted in being mouthy, the collar could break his bones and heal them, only to break them again. How cuts could appear on his skin without any sharp instruments being applied. How it could implant visions in his head of even more vile things being done to him.

This session lasted six hours. By the end of it, Harry didn't much care what happened to him anymore.

"Well, do you understand now, Potter? Do you understand that your life is now ours to do with as we please?"

"Yessir," Harry mumbled around a mouthful of broken teeth.

"Well now, that's good," one of the men said cruelly. "Good night, Potter."

Harry was hanging up by the shackles on the wall again. "How am I supposed to sleep?"

"I don't recall us giving you permission to sleep," sneered one of the men. "Stand there and think about how you belong to us and how you're going to do whatever the Dark Lord tells you when he returns." And, laughing and snickering with each other, they all left, leaving a broken Harry hanging on the wall.

2: Rescue

It had been three months ... Three long, hard, painful, excruciatingly tortuous months in the life of Harry Potter. In those months, he had been broken. He had been sodomized repeatedly by white mask wearing men, forced to eat his own excrement, forced to service anyone they told him to, told what a freak he was, how useless he was. He had been forced to stay awake continuously for days at a time, so that all semblance of reality had been taken away from him. His cell had been flooded with bright lights and total darkness at random times, he had been subjected to sudden attacks of loud random noises. He had been locked away from all his senses for more days and days, forced to be trapped in his own mind. Voices would thunder his lessons to him while he was in this state. Lessons he repeated or else he suffered even more. They had broken him, totally. He got to the point where he pretty much believed his lessons. He would do anything they told him.

Or that's what they thought.

At some point in his captivity, he had locked away the core of his being into a small room in his mind. It wasn't exactly Occlumency, but a more primitive antecedent. He locked away his essence, his personality, all that it meant to be Harry Potter, and left the rest for whatever. They only had partial control of him, from that point on; the rest of him was burned up with a hot, fiery desire for revenge: Revenge against the sick personalities that would dare to do this to a child, any child, not just the Boy-Who-Lived. They killed his family in cold blood, all of them. They locked him up, turned his magic, his wonderful, beautiful magic, the magic he had been born with, into a painful weapon to use against him, they had perverted everything it meant to be human into a slimy semblance of what it once was. Harry would have his revenge, oh yes.

Even though he was locked away, he was still aware of what was going on. And he still almost believed all his lessons. Another month or so and he probably would disappear forever into what they were making of him.

"Good morning Pet," a masked man said, coming into Harry's dungeon. "I hope you're ready for me, I'm sure ready for a sweet thing like you."

"Yes sir," Harry said dully. He was emaciated from his captivity; all he'd been allowed to eat was bread and water and, occasionally, gruel if he had earned it.

The man laughed from behind his mask. His captors never took their masks off ... he was never allowed to know their names. They were all to be addressed as "sir." There were four of them, and Harry had come to recognize each one, even if they never took off their masks.

One of them was tall with hairy hands, one of them was tall with dark hands, one was a little shorter, the other two were just average. They were all rough with him, but the tall one with the hairy hands was absolutely sadistic.

Harry was released from his shackles and bent over a table. The pain of the collar knifed into him when he didn't move fast enough. He was only allowed to wear rags, like a house-elf, so the man, the tall one with the hairy hands, just drove straight into him after flipping up the tattered remains of a towel.

After he was done, he shackled Harry to the wall again and said with a leer, "Say your lessons, pet."

"The Dark Lord is all. The Dark Lord will rule all. I will beg forgiveness from the Dark Lord for existing. I will not oppose the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is merciful. I will obey the Dark Lord in whatever he asks of me. My life is given meaning only by the grace of the Dark Lord."

"Very good, Pet. You may sleep for a while," the man sneered, closing the door as he left.

Harry sighed softly and hung there from the shackles. His arms wouldn't straighten out fully anymore; they were eternally twisted from the unnatural positions they were shackled into. He couldn't walk more than a few feet without buckling, as his bones and muscles had atrophied into near total uselessness. His eyesight, never the best to begin with, had also deteriorated until all he could see were vague shadows. There was a callus on his neck from the collar's constant heating and cooling. He looked like the worst of the worst prisoners from Auschwitz.

All of a sudden, there was a tremendous crash from overhead. The sounds of shouted curses (magical ones) roared down through the ceiling. Furniture and walls crashed, and there was the sound of several bodies thumping onto the floor. Hurried footsteps thundered down the stairs and the metal door crashed against the wall.

Three people entered the dark dungeon. Harry lifted his head weakly and saw a white topped blur, a red topped blur and a black topped blur. "Oh Merlin," the red topped blur said, horrified. "What have they done to him?"

His shackled were released by the white topped blur and Harry collapsed to the floor. _More torturers,_ he thought dully. He couldn't bring himself to care that much anymore.

"Harry, can you walk?" the white blur asked gently.

"Dunno sir," Harry muttered, attempting to rise. "Allow me to please you sir," he said, scrabbling at the white topped blur's purple robes.

There was a horrified gasp. "Harry, stop! You don't have to … oh Merlin…"

Harry stopped, still on his knees and just waited for what they would do next.

"Harry, I'm going to put you to sleep," the white topped blur said kindly. "Just lie back, and when you wake up you'll be healed, all right?"

"Ok sir," harry mumbled. Because of all the screaming he'd done, his voice was little more than a rasp.

"_Somnus Maximus_," the voice said, and Harry's world fell into the void.

Poppy Pomfrey had been a school Mediwitch for a long time indeed. She had seen any number of spell damaged students, pranks gone wrong, potions accidents and any kind of mayhem you could think of. But when Harry Potter was brought into the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, and she finally got his tattered rags off, Pomfrey did something she hadn't done since her initial training-she vomited spectacularly all over the floor. Once, twice, she heaved, until she was left, weak kneed and feeling as though somebody had filled her spine with helium and she sank down on a bed, in tears.

Sometime later, under the sympathetic gaze of Dumbledore, Pomfrey finished her examinations and gazed sadly down at the boy.

"What on earth happened to this boy, Headmaster?" Pomfrey asked, indignant.

Dumbledore sighed heavily and sank into one of his conjured chintz armchairs. "Some three months ago, his family home was attacked by Death Eaters. His family was killed and Mr. Potter was captured. Severus, Arthur Weasley and I only just managed to rescue him today."

Pomfrey paled. "Dear Merlin," she whispered. "What animals."

"Well, Poppy? What's wrong with him?" Dumbledore asked, the twinkle noticeably gone from his eyes.

"What _isn't_ wrong Headmaster would be a more accurate question," Pomfrey said. "The easiest thing first," she started, wrapping her clinical mask firmly around her. "He's about thirty pounds underweight, looks to not have had a decent meal for weeks. His stomach is about a quarter the size it should be."

"Something's wrong with his magic, it's like it's been twisted into a knot, and it has something to do with that collar around his neck. It looks like some sort of twisted magic inhibitor. I've never seen its like."

"Let's see. His shoulder joints appear to be malformed, I'll have to vanish the bones and re-grow them. He'll also need a new set of teeth. He has almost no muscle mass anymore. Numerous tiny haemorrhages on the surface of his brain, his eyesight is almost gone, his eardrums are slightly perforated. Prolonged overexposure to the Cruciatus, extensive nerve damage, and something's wrong with his mind."

Dumbledore looked worried. "Something's wrong with his mind? What do you mean?"

Pomfrey paused, tapping a quill thoughtfully on her chin. "It's like there's two of him," she said at last, "Two of them inside his head separated by some kind of barrier. I've seen Occluded minds, but this isn't quite like that, it's like he locked part of himself away…"

"The outer portion of his mind is a real mess," she continued, looking teary eyed. "There are no happy memories or good emotions of any kind in there. And I can't get in to the inner portion. Do you have any ideas, Headmaster?"

"I believe I might have some thoughts," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "It appears Mr. Potter has stumbled upon a primitive sort of Occlumency, as you guessed. He locked his personality and essence into a portion of his mind and left the rest to be sacrificed to whatever his captors might do. May I have a look?"

"Of course, Headmaster," Pomfrey said, stepping back from the bed and heading over to the potions cabinet. Harry would need a great number of potions, few of them pleasant, to begin to nurse him back to health, if it could be done at all.

Meanwhile Dumbledore pulled his wand and murmured: "_Legilimens_," and sank into Harry's mind.

It was total chaos. He was standing on a burned field of blackened grass and sharp rocky projections, while a cold wind knifed through his ethereal robes. Somewhere and nowhere, a voice was thundering what sounded like a catechism. Dumbledore strained his non-ears to hear it.

"The Dark Lord is all. The Dark Lord will rule all. I will beg forgiveness from the Dark Lord for existing. I will not oppose the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is merciful. I will obey the Dark Lord in whatever he asks of me. My life is given meaning only by the grace of the Dark Lord."

_Oh dear_, he thought. _They have done worse than I could've dreamed ... Poor child._

Looking off to the right, Dumbledore spotted what looked like a squat tower standing in the middle of the windswept plain. Willing himself forward, Dumbledore approached the tower and circled it.

It was made of black stone, so black that it seemed to suck the light out of the day. Not that it was day in here, or that there was light. But if it were, this tower would be like a void. On one side was a gigantic door that looked to be something you might see on a missile silo. Numerous locks and bars and bolts closed it off from the world. Even with his skills at Legilimency, there was no way Dumbledore could get in there. Harry would have to release the locks voluntarily. Perhaps a concerted Legilimency attack from two or more Legilimens could break it, but then that would defeat the whole purpose of the exercise.

Retreating from Harry's mind, Dumbledore found himself on a chair beside the emaciated boy's bed. He tucked his wand away and clasped his hands under his chin, as in deep thought. Harry would have to be reached somehow, persuaded to unlock his personality. Then, the healing could begin.

Just then, Pomfrey bustled over with a positively enormous tray of potions; this would no doubt use up the entire store of potions for the wing. "I will call you once I finish with him, Headmaster," she said, twirling her wand threateningly.

Dumbledore chuckled and stood up. "Of course, Poppy," he said, rising and vanishing his armchair. "I await your message."

# # #

Harry woke up feeling decidedly odd. For one thing, he felt numb. He remembered visiting the dentist last year with his aunt. His whole body felt like it had been injected with Novocain and then run over by a tractor: Repeatedly.

Groaning, Harry stretched. He was lying in a bed, a real, actual bed. He wasn't hanging from the wall anymore. His arms weren't shackled. He felt warm, instead of cold. What the hell was going on? Was this some new trick thought up by his captors to break him more?

Taking further stock, he realized his eyes were somewhat fixed. That is to say, they were as bad as they were before his capture. The collar was off his neck too, and there was no longer much of a callus on his neck.

Something was bugging him: A voice whispering deep in his head. He needed to say his lessons, as he did whenever he woke up. Bad things would happen if he didn't say his lessons. Quickly, he got out of bed, not paying attention to how easily he moved, and knelt on the floor.

"The Dark Lord is all. The Dark Lord will rule all. I will beg forgiveness from the Dark Lord for existing. I will not oppose the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is merciful. I will obey the Dark Lord in whatever he asks of me. My life is given meaning only by the grace of the Dark Lord," he said. And then he said it again, and again: He was supposed to say them three times, in the morning, twice in the afternoon, three times at night.

A gasp interrupted his third recitation and he cringed, burying his head into the bedding. A soft hand came to rest on the back of his neck and he whimpered.

"It's all right, Harry, you're safe now," a gentle voice said. "Nobody will hurt you anymore." "It's ok, you're fine."

For the first time, Harry truly looked at his surroundings.

It looked like a weird kind of hospital. Judging by the stone walls and torches, he thought it might be Hogwarts. His aunt had said something about a castle.

Looking up he saw a woman in a white robe, looking sadly at him. "Where am I?" he asked.

"You're at Hogwarts, Harry. I'm Madam Pomfrey, the healer here. I've fixed you up, but you'll need to take a number of potions to aid in your recovery."

"I'm fine," he said, standing on his feet and promptly falling over. "Please, just let me say my lessons…"

"_Somnus_," she said, sending Harry back to sleep. "Poor child, she murmured, after setting him back into bed. "I fear we may have to erase your memories…"

"That won't help, I'm afraid," came Dumbledore's voice from behind her. "While we can erase the memory of what was done to him, the things that were drilled into him won't be so easily erased. Obliviation cannot erase personalities."

"What will we do then, Headmaster?" Pomfrey asked, sinking into a chair and burying her face in her hands. "He was saying a sort of catechism to the Dark Lord, for Merlin's sake!"

Dumbledore stared at Harry, the twinkle gone from his eyes and projecting an air of defeat. "The only way," he said heavily, "is for Harry to release himself from his mind. He's locked away part of himself. Only with that portion freed can he begin the healing."

"Can we help?"

"I believe so. Surround him with love, a direct contrast with what he's recently endured, and I do believe we may be able to reach him."

"What became of the … animals that did this to him?" Pomfrey asked clenching her fists at the thought of Harry's numerous injuries.

"They are on the way to Azkaban," Dumbledore lied smoothly. "I was able to keep Harry's name from the press, for his own safety. All the DMLE was told was that I got an anonymous tip that some escaped Death Eaters were still at large, and we went to round them up."

"If anyone deserves the company of those Dementors, it's those subhuman animals," Pomfrey said vehemently. "To think they inflicted all that damage on a defenceless child…"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I quite agree. How long before he's physically healed?"

"Well, it's been three days. I've got most of the major physical and nerve damage taken care of. It'll take a lot longer to treat his malnutrition and of course his mind. I'm going to let him sleep, but we need to find somewhere where he can go; he can't stay in here forever. School is in session and I can only keep the quarantine room sealed for so long without inviting awkward questions."

She stared at the Headmaster for a moment. "Also, I managed to get that collar off him. You know what it does, Headmaster? It turns his magic against him! I had to get an amplification crystal and overpower it with my own magic to get it off; it uses the wizard's own magic to hold it on! If he were a fully grown wizard, I wouldn't have been able to do it!"

"How ghastly," Dumbledore murmured, staring at the benignly gleaming collar lying on the bedside table. "I wonder who invented it."

"It should be destroyed," Pomfrey said vehemently, glaring at it. "That thing is awful."

There was a silence, "Anyway, to your original question, No worries on that score, Poppy. Arthur Weasley has extended an offer for him to live with him. He's got a son Harry's age, you know, and they'll be starting Hogwarts in a couple of years."

Pomfrey smiled. "Molly will mother him back to health in no time, I'm sure," she said.

"No doubt," Dumbledore agreed. "Well, I'd better go inform them of the situation. How long before he wakes up?"

"Shouldn't be more than another day," Pomfrey said, waving her wand over Harry's prone body. "He should be ready to move tomorrow morning."

"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed. "Well, I must be off, school duties to attend to and I must visit the Burrow."

"Of course, Headmaster," Pomfrey said. "I will see you in the morning."

With a wave, Dumbledore headed out the hospital wing doors and Pomfrey retreated to her office, after setting up a monitoring charm on Harry's bed to alert her when the child woke again. He might need more care than she could give him, but she would do her best.

# # #

A week later, Harry was at the Weasleys' house, called the Burrow. He had scared the wits out of their younger sister when she walked in on him saying his lessons. Harry didn't care that much. The only emotions he seemed to be able to feel these days were fear, hatred and apathy. He had managed to release his personality a few days ago. All it had taken was a condolence from Albus Dumbledore.

"I'm sorry about your relatives, Harry my boy," the old man had said, twinkle in his eye going at full force. "I know how much it hurts, but I'm certain you will recover in time."

"Thank you, Sir," Harry had muttered. But inside his head, something let go and he was himself again: Sort of. He would never be the same as he was. There would always be a shadow of the tortures he endured living on.

All he wanted now was revenge. Revenge on the Death Eaters and Voldemort, the one who sponsored them.

He couldn't change clothes in front of anyone, now. He needed to lock the door to take a shower or do any other functions in the bathroom. He didn't know about prisoner psychology and how it had been used against him, he only knew that if anyone else, especially anyone male, was in the room with him if he needed to change clothes, he broke out in a sweat and started hyperventilating. They all understood and gave him his time. Gratitude was beyond his simple emotional range, however. He was just glad to get away from the pain givers, the torturers.

Another side effect of his captivity was his inability to do magic. Accidental magic was usually engendered by strong emotions. And Harry no longer felt any strong emotions anymore. Or at least that was the theory put forth by Albus Dumbledore, when questioned about it by his new guardians.

The truth was, Harry was afraid of doing magic. Not consciously, but magic was forever associated with pain and torment. So he suppressed it ruthlessly, and it would be a very long time indeed before he was persuaded to use it at all. It took numerous sessions with mind healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for him to even visit Ollivander's on his eleventh birthday.

But finally, by the time his first year at Hogwarts rolled around, Harry had somewhat healed. He could do magic, but he never made an effort to excel, publicly. His goal was revenge. He spent numerous hours in the Restricted Section, having learned the silencing charm to use on the books there. He read on dark magic and rituals, all the things he knew his enemies might be using against him.

He had been sorted into Ravenclaw, of all places, which suited him perfectly. In that house, he could sink into somewhat of an obscure pocket in the school. Oh, sure, he was remarked upon as the Boy-Who-Lived, but without the so-called Golden Trio that he might've formed had his upbringing been a little different, he quickly sank into the quagmire of school life and rarely bobbed up to the surface.

Ron Weasley never grew close to Harry, even though Harry stayed at his house for two years. He, and his other siblings, had only been told that Harry's family had died and that Harry would need to be living with them for the foreseeable future. Not being able to feel anything so strong as liking or even compassion, Harry's relationship with the Weasley children was of a boarder living in a rooming house and nothing more, in spite of the whipped puppy looks Ginny was always sending him and the attempts by Fred and George to involve him in their mischief. Harry would just fix them with a flat stare, shrug and walk off.

Hermione Granger likewise bored Harry. She had come bursting into his compartment without knocking and started demanding if he had seen a toad. Harry had shaken his head and glared at her until she left in a huff.

Having read all his schoolbooks, he was able to answer the Potions Master's questions in his first class, although Snape didn't come down on Harry as hard as he might otherwise have, had he, Snape, not been aware of what had happened to Harry.

And so, the first year of schooling passed without much incident. Harry ignored the Philosopher's Stone, ignored the odd Quirrell and basically did his best to stay under the radar, learning whatever he needed to know to take his revenge on the Death Eaters and Voldemort. It wasn't until third year that anything of interest happened. And it is here that our real story starts.

3: Weapon

Harry boarded the train at the beginning of his third year, politely waving a goodbye to the Weasleys and setting off to find an empty compartment. The news was all abuzz about Sirius Black having escaped from Azkaban, and Mr. Weasley had just told him not to go searching for him. Like Harry would. He didn't care an ounce about Sirius Black.

The last year was interesting, as much as Harry got interested in anything that was. Seems Ginny Weasley had been attacking Muggleborns, though being controlled by a cursed object which she had handed into Professor Dumbledore. Luckily, she had managed to break free of its influence before anybody but two Muggleborns and the cat were petrified, and nobody had died. The whole thing got swept under the rug.

Harry was looking forward in his slightly apathetic way to his new classes. Runes and Arithmancy sounded interesting ... Building enchanted objects and designing new spells-, definitely possibilities in there.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by nearly colliding with Draco Malfoy. "Watch where you're going, Potter," he sneered, but it was nothing like his original sneer and it had nothing on the menacing sneers of his captors. Harry simply refused to rise to Malfoy's bait and the little blond idiot had given up trying to goad him ages ago.

Ignoring him, Harry stepped aside into a seemingly empty compartment and shut the door with a sharp click. Then he turned and froze.

Sitting there was a familiar shape. Peeking out from shabby robes was a pair of familiar, hairy hands. How many times had those hands smacked him, raped him, and forced him to do unspeakable things?

Harry leaned heavily on the door. He must not, absolutely must _not_ let this man know that he had been recognized. Very, very bad things would happen if he did.

He had learned Occlumency, the real thing, not the primitive one he did during his captivity, last year, and he brought it to bear now. He must act as though nothing was wrong. He must pretend nothing was ailing him.

Just then, the door opened behind him and Luna Lovegood came in. Luna was one of the few people he actually liked, in his queer detached way, at school. She didn't pester him or ask awkward questions. She seemed content to sit there with him for hours without saying a word, which he appreciated, since he rarely spoke himself.

"Hi, Luna," Harry said, sitting on the far side of the compartment from Hairy Hands.

"Harry," Luna said, sitting by him and pulling out a magazine.

They sat that way in silence for a while, the only sound being the snores of the man across from them and the turning of pages as both he and Luna read their respective items.

Then everything stopped.

The train slowed with a grinding sound and frost started appearing on the windows. Harry started hearing faint voices in his head. He seemed to feel shackles on his wrist as voices thundered off in the distance

_Smack_. _"Say it, Potter, say it now!"_

_"The Dark Lord is all. The Dark Lord will rule all. I will beg forgiveness from the Dark Lord for existing…"_

_"Look at little wee Potter, isn't it cute…"_

_"Your life is ours to do with as we please…"_

Harry plummeted into blackness. He missed the scabrous and foul Dementors eagerly homing in on his compartment. He missed the Patronus that drove them off.

Next thing he was aware of, he was being patted lightly on the cheeks by Luna. "Wake up, Harry. They're gone now," she said, sounding a bit more focused than usual.

"Wha-who-oh,"

Harry scrambled up weakly, eating the piece of chocolate Luna gave him. Once he got his equilibrium back, he asked: "What were those things?"

"Those were the Dementors of Azkaban. Daddy's been trying to convince Fudge that they're actually Heliopaths in disguise, but he won't listen," Luna answered, back to her dreamy self now that Harry was ok.

Just then, Harry remembered Hairy Hands and looked around quickly, but he was gone. "Where's the bloke who was in here before?"

"Oh, that was R. J. Lupin, our new defence teacher. He went off to speak to the conductor. He's a werewolf, you know."

"Is he?"

"Oh yes," Luna nodded, "The gray hair, the shabby appearance, the amber eyes … definitely a werewolf."

Harry hummed absently and sank into deep thought.

What on earth was one of his captors doing here at Hogwarts, teaching defence? It was even worse now that he had a name to put to him; before he had just been Hairy Hands. But his name was R. J. Lupin. The man, who had sodomized him, beat him with his fists, tortured him with that cursed collar-his name was R. J. Lupin. Dumbledore had asked him, way back in the beginning, if Harry could identify any of his captors, but Harry had told him that they always kept their masks on. He didn't tell them how he got to recognize each one by their styles of torture. That was his business.

Harry felt the old resignation and fear welling up inside him and ruthlessly suppressed it. Before, his targets had been faceless, meaningless shapes in his head. Now, he had a name. R. J. Lupin. And R. J. Lupin would be the first to pay. Dumbledore didn't know he was a Death Eater. But that didn't matter, he, Harry would take care of it for him. He couldn't rely on anyone else but himself, flawed as he might be by his treatment. And when Voldemort returned, he would have one less servant to follow him: One less tormenter of helpless victims. All thanks to Harry.

These thoughts occupied him all the way to school. Luna didn't talk to him, just continued to hum quietly to herself and read her magazine. Harry glanced up to the table at the Welcoming Feast and got his first confirmation of Lupin's condition.

Instead of the silver forks the rest of them were using, Lupin was using a regular one. Silver was poisonous to werewolves. And Harry knew right then what he was going to do to eliminate Lupin from the picture.

Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table by Luna and listened to the Headmaster's inane ramblings and ate his way mechanically through the feast. R. J. Lupin would die. And he would die soon. Harry vowed it.

# # #

Three weeks later, Harry decided it was time. He had sat through Lupin's classes, not acknowledging him in any way. Lupin had done the same, but Harry thought he had caught him staring speculatively at him once or twice. He had sat out the lesson on Boggarts and written the essay, and Lupin hadn't pressed him on it. But now, it was time for him to die.

Harry was creeping along the hallways of Hogwarts castle at three in the morning. The place was silent. Well, as silent as a magical castle can be, anyway. Portraits snored, the moving staircases groaned, and the walking dishrag, AKA Mrs. Norris meowed somewhere. He was heading off toward Lupin's office, a transfigured silver fork in his hand. It was now a square of pins which he would place under the professor's chair. Hardly an honourable thing to do, but did dishonourable men deserve to die honourable deaths? Harry didn't think so.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by voices coming out of Lupin's office door. Who the hell was up at this hour? Tucking his cloak more tightly around him and thankful that he had removed the tracking charms from it Harry eased up to the side of the door and listened.

"Remind me again, Albus, why all that was necessary?"

A gusty sigh, "Remus, I told you. The Dursleys were not following directions. I could've placed compulsion charms on them, but they would've worn off and I would've been seen. They were raising Harry like one of their own, when they were supposed to keep him downtrodden and hopeless. I had to put a stop to that. Harry must defeat Voldemort, and if he was happy, he couldn't do that. He must be hardened in adversity to overcome it."

"I understand all that, but why'd we have to put him through all that?" Lupin asked again.

"It was for the greater good, Remus," Dumbledore said gently. "What better way to get Harry wanting to defeat Voldemort, than by having Death Eaters kill his family and torture him. You, Kingsley, Sturgis and Elphias exceeded my greatest expectations. Harry is now fired up with revenge and will go to any lengths to defeat Voldemort."

There was a brief silence in the office. Harry was slack jawed with shock, all that ... all that torture and horror had been orchestrated by Albus Dumbledore, the leader of the light, so Harry would defeat Voldemort?"

"Very well," said Lupin heavily. There was the sound of a glass clinking on the table. "But I want to know something, Albus. After all I've done, after all of us have done, we deserve to know the prophecy."

"I agree, Remus," said Dumbledore. "It goes like this."

He paused and Harry listened, holding his breath.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

More silence.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea what it means?"

"I have some ideas, yes," said Dumbledore. "But without further evidence I don't dare speculate too much. But, it is clear that Harry must be the one to defeat him. If he was loved, if he had someone to care for, he wouldn't put in his all into the effort. This is why I had you do what you did, Remus."

"I understand, Albus," said Lupin. "I guess we'd better be off to bed."

"Quite," said \Dumbledore, and Harry just knew his bastardly eyes were twinkling. "Good night, Remus."

Harry silently left, his mission forgotten. Just a weapon, was he? Just a means to an end? Well, he'd show them. _Neither can live while the other survives ..._ Right.

He couldn't believe it. Betrayal and anger raged inside him. He came across the walking dust-mop and kicked her, howling, all the way down the stairs, where she came to a crunching stop in the entrance hall. He didn't care. He was just a weapon. He was supposed to kill, so why not start early?

He answered the riddle to Ravenclaw Tower ""Walk on the living, they don't even mumble. Walk on the dead, they mutter and grumble. What are they?" and went up to bed.

It was clear what he must do. He was supposed to kill Voldemort. Neither could live while the other survived. It had come to him in a blinding instant of clarity: All the torture, all the torment, the apathetic shell of himself that he was nowadays. He was groomed for one purpose and one purpose only-to kill Voldemort and then become obsolete.

Well, he was done. This last revelation, that everything he had been put through was the fault of Albus Dumbledore, had pushed him over the edge. He would've happily killed Voldemort for no other reason than because he had killed James and Lily Potter, his parents. He had gotten to know his mother very well through his aunt's stories. That would've been revenge enough, but no. It was enough for Albus bloody Dumbledore. Harry had to be broken, had to be turned into nothing more than a hollow man, like that T. S. Eliot poem, had to be transmuted into nothing more than a machine ... Because Albus Dumbledore couldn't be straight with him.

Well, Harry was sure of one thing. He wouldn't be a weapon. And there was only one way to take revenge on both sides for fucking up his life. Neither can live while the other survives. He didn't want to do this, but it was the only way. It was the only way he might get to feel something, beyond fear, beyond apathy, beyond self loathing. Yes, this was the only way to gain absolution. Let Dumbledore and Voldemort battle it out with each other. He had nothing invested in the fight. Not anymore. But he would get his revenge on both sides, nonetheless. He wrote a letter, duplicated it, pulled out several strands of memories, duplicated them and put them in unbreakable vials. Then he wrote a howler and charmed it so silencing charms wouldn't work on it; he wanted everyone to hear what it said. (Molly had told him how to make one once.) Hedwig came winging in through the open window.

"Take these to the _Daily Prophet_ and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and then give this one to Dumbledore in the morning, girl," Harry told her quietly. Hedwig was his only other friend. She had come flying quietly down to him the first time he entered the Owl Emporium and had stuck with him ever since.

Hedwig hooted mournfully and nuzzled her beak into Harry's neck. She could sense what her wizard was going to do and it filled her with sadness, like one of her own chicks was dying.

"I'm sorry, girl," Harry murmured into her feathers. "This is the only way. Live free, and live long, for me."

Hedwig hooted, nibbled his fingers and flew silently out the window, two yellow and one red envelope in her talons and the package of vials tied to her leg.

Harry stood at the window, watching her go and stared for the last time at the pristine grounds of Hogwarts School. He wouldn't miss anyone here. It was time for him to step out.

Harry picked up his wand off the bedside table and pointed it at his heart. He would be seeing his parents and aunt uncle and cousin again. He knew they would forgive him for killing himself. That's what it was all about. There is magic in forgiveness. But he couldn't forgive Dumbledore, not for taking away his family. He could forgive all the wrongs done against him, but not for murdering his family. That was beyond the pale.

Taking a firm grip on his wand, he called up the image of all the time he had spent under the hands of Lupin and his friends. He called up the memory of the recent conversation he had overheard. He unlocked all the memories of the things he had been made to do at the behest of those fake Death Eaters. And he let it all out in a scream of two fatal words. His dorm mates would wake up at his scream. It would be them who found his body. They would go to Professor Flitwick who would go to Dumbledore. Dumbledore would realize his mistake. But he would realize it far too late.

"Avada Kedavra!"

On those two words did the future of the wizarding world hinge ... But Harry would feel nothing anymore.

Epilogue

The letters Harry sent out made the biggest splash in wizarding history. All over the country, witchess and wizards gaped in astonishment and growing rage at what was done to their savior by the Leader of the Light.

The Daily Prophet had to do several reprintings to meet the demand. It detailed everything Harry had gone through, verified by Pensieve memories. Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt was arrested and sentenced to life in Azkaban based upon a blood signed letter and memories received by the DMLE. Sturgiss Podmore was also sentenced to Azkaban, along with Elphias Boge.

The howler Harry had written was heard by everyone in the Great Hall the next morning. Before Dumbledore could do anything, the entirety of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw House had fallen on him, ripped his wand out of his hand and, in the ensuing scuffle, his neck was broken. Nobody mourned him all that much.

Remus Lupin was killed by Luna Lovegood. Enraged at what had been done to her only friend, she had poisoned his drink with silver nitrate she had gotten from her father, charmed not to tickle his werewolf senses. He died boiling on the inside on the hall floor.

Sirius Black was pardoned after he managed to capture Peter Pettigrew. He thanked Luna for killing Remus Lupin, the one he thought of as a friend. Lit up by a fiery thirst for revenge, it was he who led the resistance against Voldemort. He wasn't able to win over all the purebloods to his cause, but quite a few joined under the Black family banner.

The next year, Voldemort returned. He captured Neville Longbottom and used his blood in a ritual to give himself a new body, killing Longbottom in so doing. It wasn't long after that that Lucius Malfoy was sworn in as the new Minister. Muggleborns were Obliviated and left in the Muggle world, their magic bound. It was a very grim place to be. Sirius Black led the resistance for two years, but was eventually killed by Voldemort himself.

The International Confederation of Wizards imposed sanctions and embargos on Britain. Before long, nobody was allowed to leave or enter the country. Voldemort reigned supreme. And, of the Boy-Who-Lived, nothing was ever heard of again.


	9. The Truth Shall Set You Free

**The Truth Shall Set You Free**

By Opopanax

A/N: In revenge for all those happy H/Hr stories out there. Hermione fans, don't read.

* * *

It was over.

He now could add a new stupid hyphenated title to his list: Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Man-Who-Won, and Man-Who-Couldn't-Keep-a-Wife. He didn't give a flying fuck about the first two, but the last one sure mattered. It mattered like hell.

He came out of the courtroom in the lower levels of the Ministry in a daze. His kids were not present; they had been hustled off to be cozied up in the receptive arms of their grandparents, who had given him scathing looks as they took the kids into their car. Like it was his fault. Like it was his fault that his wife had decided she had used him enough. Used him to get what she wanted.

It had been thirty years since the battle at Hogwarts when Voldemort had been slain, not by Harry's own hand, but by his own rebounding spell. He had spent the summer rebuilding Hogwarts and his relationship with his girlfriend, Hermione. During that fucking camping trip, after that idiot Ron had left, and after the useless floods of tears she had shed, they grew closer. After just missing Voldemort again in Bagshot's house in Godric's Hollow, they had made love. It was wonderful, everything he could've wanted. Ginny Weasley had been pushed way back to the back of his mind, relegated to her proper place as an ex girlfriend, an attempt at a normal life. Right where she belonged, in other words. She was just another fan girl while Hermione had stuck with him throughout everything that had ever happened in their Hogwarts careers.

After that first night, they never slept apart. It was his love for Hermione, not Ginny, which had allowed him to come back from that weird version of King's Cross. It was his love for Hermione which had helped him stick around, even when the reporters and Ministry officials were driving him bonkers, wanting stories and autographs and interviews and endorsements.

Finally, after they finished their seventh year, Harry had taken her out into the Muggle world, to the fabled cliffs of Dover, and proposed overlooking the sea. A teary eyed Hermione had accepted, and they set up housekeeping in Manchester.

The Weasleys had all been shocked and outraged that Harry would sully his Potter blood with a mudblood and had sent howler after howler and even a few love potions to try to get him to marry Ginny. They had even tried to make him pack his bags and take a guilt trip

"Don't you want to marry me, Harry? We'd look just like your parents," from Ginny.

"After all we've done for you, this is the least you could do. Just a little ceremony and you can have the family you'd always wanted," from Mrs. Weasley.

Translation: Marry my daughter so we can move up in the world. Harry wasn't going on that trip, no sir.

The upshot was, Ron no longer spoke to them, and they were no longer welcome at the Burrow. Nice to know people you thought cared for you only did because they were told to. Either way, it didn't really bother either Hermione or Harry all that much, once they thought about it a while. Just fit the pattern.

Both had gone to work for the Ministry, Harry as an Unspeakable doing research, and Hermione up into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and later, a high level Department of Magical Law Enforcement official. At first, he was going to be an Auror, but he decided with his wife's urging that catching dark wizards was something he had already done enough of. And ever since his disastrous fifth year, he had been plagued with dreams about that damned veil in the Department of Mysteries. So, he faced his demons head on and went to work for the department.

Everything chugged along happily enough after that. They had three kids, Michael, Geoffrey and Erica Potter. They came a year apart, and by now the last one, Erica, was in her seventh year. Harry's maternal genes came out in her and she was a redhead, with Hermione's bushiness and brown eyes. It was quite odd.

All was well in Harry's world. He had a family, kids he adored and who adored him, and a wife he would give the sun and stars to.

And then the shattering announcement last month.

"Harry," Hermione said, coming into the kitchen one mourning where Harry was engrossed in a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and drinking a cup of tea.

"Hmm?" He mumbled absently, turning a page.

"I want a divorce," she said without any preamble.

This had an electrifying effect on him. "What?" he shouted, half rising.

"I want a divorce," she repeated calmly, standing with arms folded and sounding as if she had said something no more interesting than "I want steak for dinner."

"But why? Did you meet someone…someone else?" This had always been a nagging fear in the back of Harry's mind; that Hermione would come to her senses and realize she could do a hell of a lot better than skinny Harry Potter, he with the uncontrollable hair and not so great mind.

"No, I just do, that's all," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "There's no one else."

What followed was a whirlwind of tears, recriminations and acrimony. Hermione took the kids and moved out the next weekend. She already had the divorce papers filled out and awaiting signature, so clearly this wasn't a spur of the moment decision. Hermione's parents were giving him the cold shoulder. It crossed Harry's addled and grief stricken mind that they thought he had cheated on her. As if he'd do such a thing. All his life, the only thing he wanted even more than Voldemort to be gone was a family he could call his own. The Dursleys hardly counted. Last he heard, old Dudders had turned out to be almost an exact clone of his father, weighing somewhere around six hundred pounds and marrying a wife who looked almost exactly like Aunt Petunia. Vernon died of a heart attack while playing golf with one of his Grunnings associates, and Aunt Petunia ended up having to go to work as a hospital receptionist. Harry only heard about all this second and third hand; he had no desire to track them down himself. As far as he was concerned, a Dursley free life was just what the healer ordered.

What it all boiled down to was that Harry would no sooner cheat on Hermione than he would kiss Draco Malfoy. Keeping his family together was the most important thing to him. He sent owl after owl, made phone call after phone call, begging Hermione to reconsider, to please, please think about their children. All his entreaties and appeals fell on deaf ears. His owls went unanswered, the phone number got changed and he was slapped with a restraining order.

Finally, it was over. The divorce had been finalized, Hermione having cited irreconcilable differences as the grounds for the divorce. Harry was walking out of the courtroom, head hanging, tears in his eyes. Everything was gone, everything. But the day's festivities weren't over yet.

Harry felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw it was Hermione. His eyes lit up with hope.

"Please, Hermione-"

"Stop, Harry, just stop, she said, holding up a hand. "I came to tell you something."

He looked at her expectantly.

"I never loved you," she said simply, tossing her wedding ring on the floor at his feet.

It was like the whole world had come to a stop. It was like he was on a polar ice cap and the whole thing just shifted. Whole new floes opened up where there had been nothing but flatness, crevices opened up where there had been nothing. And he fell into it. His whole world had changed in a single instant, just like the geography of a polar icecap. Everything he'd accepted as true suddenly wasn't, thus calling into question the validity of his entire life.

On one hand, he was shocked, shocked and appalled. On the other hand, a tiny part of himself whispered slyly that he should've seen it coming. _This is just another example, you're worthless_, this voice said somewhere deep in his brain. He stood there in the hallway, mind blank, hands hanging limp, like a robot whose batteries just ran dry. He stared at Hermione, who met his gaze unflinchingly.

"B-but why did you marry me then?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. He could've asked a million questions, but this one was at the forefront of his mind.

Hermione scoffed and threw up her hands. "Isn't it obvious, Harry? I needed backing of a pureblood or someone with a high enough name to get anywhere in this world. At first I was going to marry Ron, but his name's mud. His family's poor, Ron's lazy and idiotic, and I wouldn't have gotten anywhere. Why do you think they wanted you to marry Ginny? It was so they could get some gold back in their vaults."

"So, after he left us on that idiotic camping trip, I decided it had to be you, and more specifically, after you killed Voldemort. Everything was open to you, and then later to me as your wife."

"So … I was just a means to an end then," Harry said, still barely above a whisper.

Hermione shrugged, "Of course."

"Didn't you care for me at all? All those years … didn't you feel something?"

"Perhaps I did," Hermione said with a shrug. "Perhaps that's why I waited this long, to let your kids grow up first."

"But…I still don't understand. If you're not interested in me, how'd you fake it all these years?"

Hermione looked at him as if he were the biggest idiot alive. "I gave myself love potions," she said, acting as though it should be obvious, "Ever since that damned camping trip ... One small dose each month. You're not a bad guy, Harry, but you're absolutely rubbish as a lover and husband. And like I said, I wasn't attracted to you in the slightest."

"Well, if that's all, I'd best be going," she said brightly, turning and heading off. "Have a nice life, Harry."

Harry stood there in the hallway just outside the courtroom, staring blankly at Hermione's wedding ring, lying on the floor and gleaming benignly in the torchlight.

A lie. His entire life had been a filthy lie. The one person he thought cared about him above all others didn't. She only used him for personal advancement. The lies and manipulations of Albus Dumbledore he could handle; he had, after all, only been a weapon and he sort of expected it. Sure he'd been angry, but it was all over anyway and there was no use steaming about it.

But this…

He had gotten the wedding ring out of the Potter vault. It had been his mother's, and before that his grandmother's. He had been in tears when he had given it to Hermione, and he thought she'd understood. But she hadn't. She had lied to him. Lied to him all these years, and he had been sucked in, hook, line and sinker. Because he was desperate to have a family, because he clung onto anyone who showed him kindness. Because he had been desperate enough to believe, in spite of the Dursleys' teachings, that he was worth loving.

Now, with that stark admission

_"I never loved you,"_

All his illusions were shattered. He started wondering what else there was for him now. With a cold realization, he realized that he was all alone. Totally and completely.

He had dropped out of touch with his old Gryffindor dorm mates. Even Luna was out of the country with her husband and hadn't been heard from in months. And of course, he was persona non grata with the Weasley clan. In short, he had nobody.

Moving like he was an old, old man, Harry Potter picked up his wedding ring off the floor and made his way slowly to the Apparation point at the Ministry atrium. He returned the rings to the vault at Gringotts, updated his wills in order to leave Hermione out of them. She wouldn't get a lousy Knut from him if he could help it. Made sure his kids would be taken care of. They were the innocents here, mere pawns in Hermione's game. He was of two minds about them. On one hand, they were part of him, and he loved them dearly. On the other hand, they were part of Hermione's game and had been created under false pretences. The upshot was that he really didn't want anything to do with them anymore; the conflicts were too great. It helped that all three were of age now and he didn't have to feel too guilty about leaving them behind. But he did, anyway.

For the next few months, he sequestered himself in the old house at Grimmauld Place. Kreacher had died long ago and the house had fallen in to disrepair. It suited Harry perfectly. He was broken and used up, just like the house.

The papers had a field day with his divorce, but it died down quickly. The Boy-Who-Lived and Man-Who-Won mystique had died down a while ago; after all, Unspeakable Potter disappeared into a little known pocket of the Ministry and quickly sank from sight. He had done nothing to call attention to himself, and, after the inevitable outcry that he hadn't done anything to protect them from future dark wizards, the press had left him alone. His divorce was a small column in the society pages, speculated on briefly, and then forgotten. He didn't know what Hermione was doing until later.

As it turned out, she had been using his name to get some of the old pureblood biased laws off the books. Being Muggle born no longer counted against you, at least legally. Once she no longer needed him was when the divorce had happened. _Clever Hermione,_ he thought bitterly as he read that in the Prophet. He supposed the laws were a good thing, but why the hell couldn't she have told him what she wanted? He would've done anything for her.

Harry quit his job at the Ministry, handing off his projects to his underlings over the next couple of months. After locking all his money in blood based vaults, which took a long time to negotiate as the goblins really didn't like that kind of thing, Harry had one more thing to do in the Department of Mysteries.

He was standing in a stone amphitheatre, with numerous stone benches descending in tiers. At the centre of the pit was a stone archway, even more cracked and crumbling than when he first saw it in fifth year. So long ago, that was. Like another life.

Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or veil which, despite the complete stillness of the cold surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though it had just been touched.

Harry descended the benches, listening to the voices from the veil. It was after hours again, just like fifth year. Nobody was here, and he was taking advantage of this to do one last thing.

Before he realized it, his foot made contact with the dais upon which the archway was standing. The veil was fluttering more frantically now, as if it sensed him. The voices were a little louder but still jumbled, like hearing speeded up taped voices over the crest of a hill. Harry leaned closer to hear. These voices, he knew, could provide him the answers he needed ... all he needed to do was get a little closer. Just a bit more…

# # #

**Harry Potter missing!**

Where is Harry Potter? Sources in the Ministry of Magic have been less than helpful. Potter was last sighted six months ago entering Ministry of Magic property by watchwizard George Bristol, but never seen coming out again. Head Auror Gawain Robards was unavailable for comment, but an unnamed source from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stated that Mr. Potter's whereabouts were not being investigated very thoroughly. "We think he just ran away," this source said, shrugging. "He quit his job here after his divorce, you know, and we think that maybe he just decided to leave."

Whether or not Mr. Potter decided to leave of his own accord is a question which continues to trouble many readers. We can only hope, though, that wherever he may be, Mr. Potter is happy and content.

* * *

A/N:I should have the new chapter of Adversary up, for those who have it on alerts, sometime in the next couple of weeks. This is to tide my readers over till then. Also got a few more oneshots in the works. Thanks for reading.


	10. The Enemy

**The Enemy**

By Opopanax

A/n: I was reading about school shootings the other day, and thought I'd make a Harry Potter version. Very dark story. No bashings really.

* * *

1

_30 June, 1994_

_He's at it again._

_I woke up from the nightmares again. Vernon wasn't happy. He doesn't dare lock my stuff up anymore, though. Not since we realize there are wizards watching the house. They don't do anything to stop him. They never have. He may have just realized it, but I knew all along. But I can't really bring myself to care anymore._

_I thought about it. Wizards were always coming up to me when I was younger. They must have seen how ragged and nasty I looked. But did they do anything? No, hell no, they didn't._

_Now they're actively watching the house, and they still do nothing. It's what I've come to expect._

_Not a word from my "friends", if that's what they are. Not a word from Dumbledore either. Not a whisper in the newspaper. Voldemort's back, he used my blood, and I'm locked away in this cage._

_I wonder what I did to deserve this. But then, as soon as I do, the question goes away. Because nothing has changed. I've always been in one prison or another. Nothing new here, let's move on._

-From the diary of Harry Potter

# # #

Hermione Granger sighed and closed the battered notebook. She had been pouring over these four notebooks for a week, ever since they were discovered underneath Harry Potter's bed. How could one boy hold some much pain, so much anguish? How could he have carried on, none of them suspecting a thing?

Five years after the death of Harry Potter, Hermione was still trying to find answers. His final expression haunted her dreams: The expression of a soul finally at peace.

She remembered the first time she'd ever seen him, crashing into his train compartment asking about a toad. The first thing she'd noticed was his thousand yard stare. Like his eyes were blanks. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, nobody was home.

She didn't think much of it at the time. She was only eleven after all. But later … Ah yes, it was always easier to notice things later. Later, later, later ... when it doesn't really matter anymore. You can torture yourself with what you should have seen for hours and hours and never get anywhere.

He had been quiet. That was the second thing. Oh sure, he did a fine job of pretending to be perfectly friendly. He did a fine job of wearing a public mask. But in those rare moments when he thought nobody was looking, she'd seen the thousand yard stare come back. Nobody home again. It was like he was a hollow shell.

But again, she did nothing. Nobody did anything. And that must have hurt most of all. But who knew? Because he never said anything either.

After he had died, Hermione had turned him into sort of an obsession. She had gone to Warwick University, near Coventry, and spent hours and hours buried in psychology papers and studies of childhood development. Finally, she had figured out what was wrong with him. He had reactive attachment disorder. And it made her want to kill the Dursleys. Because it was ultimately their fault he was dead.

He hadn't been able to bond with anyone, because whenever he cried, Vernon would stash him in the cupboard under the stairs. That had all come out yesterday, in day two of the trial. Not that it really did any good. They held it in courtroom ten, the same room where Harry had been put on trial for repelling the Dementors. They called primary school teachers from Harry's younger days. They had Obliviated them afterwards, of course. Harry was a troublemaker. The reason he was wearing such baggy clothing was he had to earn better ones. Vernon had read about it in some weird magazine or other. Got a troublesome kid? Make him earn stuff. For each day of good behaviour, earn a shirt, earn a toy, whatever. Each day of bad behaviour, lose the shirt, the toy, etc. Sounded utterly barbaric, but the teachers bought it. And that was the reason nobody ever did anything to help him. They bought every pathetic lie the Dursleys told. They should've instituted that policy with Dudley. But it was barbaric to do it to a little kid like Harry who just sat there with his thousand yard stare and didn't volunteer anything.

The trial really didn't accomplish much, at least not yet. The Ministry of Magic had to be seen to be doing something. Five years later, a rule of accidental death still didn't mean much. The populace still wanted answers.

Dumbledore had done his best to stop it from happening, but the trial had gone on regardless. He had to recuse himself, obviously. The school Headmaster can't be trying one of his students ... Even if it was posthumously.

Even more important, the school Headmaster couldn't be trying the daughter of his greatest defender for murder. No, Ginny Weasley definitely wouldn't be questioned by Dumbledore.

2

_1 September, 1995_

_First day of school ... Train trip went like usual. Nobody noticed the bruises. I've gotten real good at hiding them._

_They took me to Grimmauld Place ... Can't trust Ron and Hermione anymore. No real surprise there. Went to that stupid trial, didn't care much. Fudge is still burying his face in the sand, Dumbledore is ignoring me, Sirius thinks I'm my father and calls me James. So nothings' really changed._

_Sitting here up in the Gryffindor dorm, wondering why I bother anymore ... And avoiding Ron and Hermione. The questions, always with the damn questions. "How are you feeling, Harry? Why don't you tell us anything, Harry? Want to play chess, Harry?" They call themselves my friends, but what the hell is a friend supposed to do?_

-From the diary of Harry Potter

# # #

Day three: Hermione threw on a set of robes and Disapparated from her parents' back garden. Her life was on hold, basically, until this matter was resolved one way or another. So she hadn't done anything about finding a job, a house, nothing. She wanted to help him, even though it was too late.

_Oh sure, said a snide voice in her head. Your life's on hold. Good for you. What about Ginny, huh? Huh? What do you think her life's been like, having killed the boy she loved? Huh?_

And as usual, she felt a fresh spasm of guilt. Yeah, she was living and breathing the history of Harry Potter. She had done nothing for the past four days except read his diaries. And she hadn't handed them in for evidence. She would hand them in when she was finished with them.

It was pure chance that she found them, actually. She remembered something he'd let slip about a loose floorboard under his bed. So she'd gone to Surrey four days ago, before the paper blared about a hearing into the death of Harry Potter, and found four notebooks stashed under there: One for just about each year in the magical world.

That was pretty interesting in and of itself, wasn't it? Just about everyone, herself included, figured what he'd done was a spur of the moment thing. That it was a crime of passion type of thing. But finding the notebooks under the floorboard injected a grain of doubt. He obviously knew how to sneak out of the castle. And he'd obviously done so-the notebooks proved it. And he couldn't have done so after the incident. This meant he'd done it before ... Which meant…

She shied away from that thought. It was the pink elephant in the living room, the corpse hanging from the ceiling. _Shhh, shhh, we will not speak of these things, for here there be tigers. Yes, big ones with hungry teeth._

She appeared in the Ministry atrium and walked quickly to the lifts, heading for Courtroom Ten. And she was not thinking about suicide. No sir. She was calm and collected.

The courtroom was packed. Every Tom, Dick and Harry thought they needed to have a piece of the action. Photographers were perched like magpies in the gallery, shooting everything and wafting purple smoke over the crowd. Reporters clumped together like eager puppies in the front rows. Ministry workers and ordinary members of the public filled the rest of the seats. Because today was the biggest witness of all: Albus Dumbledore.

3

31 October, 1995

_Another Halloween: Another year of not knowing quite how to feel. Umbridge is terrorizing the school, Hermione is pressuring me to start some sort of DADA group, and she is still asking me questions. More fucking questions. Can't these people just leave me the hell alone?_

_I don't know what to do anymore. I thought things would be different here in the magical world. But I realized after second year that it really isn't. Hero one day, dark lord the next. And now, insane and possibly dangerous, according to Ron's brother, Percy._

_I can feel myself shutting down, day by day, week by week. No more pain, no more sadness. I just float along, high and wee, like so and so said about the balloon man. Who cares about Voldemort? He only wants to kill me. I have met the enemy, and the enemy is me._

-From the diary of Harry Potter

# # #

"Let's have some order in this courtroom!" boomed Amelia Bones, banging a gavel on the bench. "Order! or this will be a closed trial!"

Gradually the mutterings and camera flashes stopped and quiet descended on the crowd. Albus Dumbledore was sitting regally in the witness chair, wearing his usual garish robes and pointy hat. The chains clinked menacingly in the silence, but did not bind him.

"Very well," Bones continued, screwing her monocle tighter into her eye and scanning the thick sheaf of parchment in front of her. "Interrogatory hearing into the circumstances surrounding the death of one Harry James Potter, entering into day three of the proceedings."

"Witness: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, acting in his capacity of Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and in loco parentis of the subject. Lead interrogator, Amelia Susan Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Chastity Bernstein, head of the Department of Wizarding Child Services, and Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Aurors."

She paused and pointed at each person named, then continued, addressing Dumbledore.

"You are Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore?"

"Yes, I am."

"You were the Headmaster at the time of the incident?"

"I was."

"You also took it upon yourself, as head of the Wizengamot body at the time, to place Mr. Potter at his relatives' home?"

"I did."

"Can you please tell the court what led you to make this decision?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily and folded his hands under his chin.

"My answer is that my priority was to keep him alive. He was in more danger than perhaps anyone but myself realized. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but his supporters-and, as you might remember, many of them are almost as terrible as he-were still at large, angry, desperate, and violent. And I had to make my decision too with regard to the years ahead. Did I believe that Voldemort was gone forever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty, or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed Harry.

"I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic was perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he ever returned to full power.

"But I knew too where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. Harry would be protected by an ancient magic of which Voldemort knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated-to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that his mother died to save him. She gave him a lingering protection Voldemort never expected, a protection that flowed in his veins to the day he died. I put my trust, therefore, in his mother's blood. I delivered him to her sister, her only remaining relative."

"Did you know what his home life was like there?" The head of child services, Chastity Bernstein asked.

Dumbledore looked a little uncomfortable. "I was aware, yes, that his situation was not … ideal. However, he was alive and well."

Bernstein looked disgusted. "He was alive and well? Whenever he cried as a baby he was stuffed into a cupboard under the stairs. He was beaten for doing better on a test than his cousin. He was only fed bread and water for the most part. You call that alive and well?"

Dumbledore had the good sense not to answer that. Bernstein huffed, but subsided back to silence.

"Would you have done anything, if you had become aware of the true severity of Mr. Potter's living conditions?" Bones asked.

Dumbledore looked even more uncomfortable. "I would've done my best to improve them," he said diplomatically.

"Would you have removed him?" Bones asked, not dancing anymore.

"No," Dumbledore said. "He was safest there."

There was a silence. Nobody needed to make the next point. Harry Potter was dead. So evidently he wasn't.

Bones moved on. "When he first arrived at Hogwarts, was there anything different that might set him apart from the other first years? Other than his status as the Boy-Who-Lived, I mean."

"Not to my knowledge. He was neither as well nourished or as happy as I would've liked, but I assumed he was doing as well as he could be, under the circumstances. He had formed a strong bond with Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, and he seemed to be adjusting well to school life."

"Did he ever mention anything regarding his home situation to you or any of the teachers?"

"No, he did not. He seemed to be thriving at Hogwarts, and many teachers reported him to be an apt pupil."

"What about the allegations we heard yesterday from Frederic and George Weasley about rescuing Mr. Potter from a room with bars on the windows prior to attending his second year at Hogwarts?"

"We assumed they were making up stories, trying to rationalize their use of a flying car," said Dumbledore, looking ashamed. "We didn't suspect they might be telling the truth."

From the gallery, Hermione saw Fred and George, staring daggers at Dumbledore, their usual cheery grins nowhere in evidence. Their sister was not present. She had been under self imposed exile at the Burrow ever since that terrible night. Hermione hadn't laid eyes on her in the past five years. None of the Weasleys, really, except in passing, wanted anything to do with her.

"So basically, it would be safe to say that you didn't know anything, you didn't see anything, and you didn't hear anything, right?" interjected Rufus Scrimgeour with a tiny amount of sarcasm.

"I had suspicions that they weren't adequately caring for him, but, again, he was safest there," said Dumbledore, now looking a little peeved.

"Let's move on to the incident in question," Bones said, glaring briefly at Scrimgeour. "Tell us the circumstances surrounding the incident from your perspective."

"As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Potter and five others entered into the Ministry based upon information received by Mr. Potter that his godfather, Sirius Black, was being held in the Department of Mysteries, being tortured by Voldemort. Upon arriving at their destination, however, they discovered that the information was false and that they had been led into a trap to force Mr. Potter into retrieving a prophecy regarding himself and Voldemort.

"The students then engaged a dozen of Voldemort's followers before members of the Order of the Phoenix, including Sirius, arrived to render assistance. Sirius was lost through the veil in the Death Chamber, and Mr. Potter pursued Bellatrix Lestrange to the Atrium.

"Voldemort then arrived, and became aware that the prophecy had been broken. I duelled him, and he attempted to possess Mr. Potter after I proved to be too tough of a match for him in a last ditch attempt at causing the death of the boy, then when he was unsuccessful after Mr. Potter had thrown off the possession, he Disapparated with Mrs. Lestrange.

"I sent Mr. Potter back to Hogwarts while I brought Minister Fudge up to speed on current events. I informed him of the prophecy. He left my office, where I assumed he went to his dormitory.

"I did not see Mr. Potter until the next evening, when he came into the Great Hall for the leaving feast. He appeared in the hall, brandishing his wand. I was too stunned to react before six Killing Curses shot out, hitting apparently random students."

There was a heavy, oppressive silence in the courtroom as a tear tracked down Dumbledore's cheek into his beard.

"Several students then attempted to subdue Mr. Potter with binding hexes and stunners. He ducked and dodged each one, before a small cutting curse, apparently aimed at his wand hand to cause him to drop it, hit him in the side of the neck."

"And who sent that final curse?" Bones asked softly.

"Ginevra Weasley," Dumbledore whispered.

4

_24 December, 1995_

_Back at Grimmauld Place: I'm sitting with Buckbeak. Nobody will look at me, since they heard I might be being possessed by Voldemort. Ron is looking at me like he did back in second year. Like I might jump up and attack him any minute._

_I find I don't really care much. Let anyone get too close and they only hurt you. I learned that lesson early._

_I tried telling a teacher what the Dursleys were like. I was five. We were supposed to talk about our families. She didn't believe me. Said I was telling lies. So the pattern started early. Nobody knows, and nobody cares. They see what they expect to see._

_So I quit caring too. If you don't care, nobody can hurt you. If I don't care, I can't hurt myself._

-From the diary of Harry Potter

# # #

Day four: Ginny Weasley was now sitting in the witness chair. She was a shadow of her former self. Her once vibrant red hair was a matted tangle. Even from across the courtroom Hermione could count the bones in her shoulders. Her eyes were dull, weary. They looked like Harry's eyes; dead and empty.

"You are Ginevra Weasley?" asked Bones in a soft voice.

"Yes," Ginny whispered, not looking up from the floor.

"Will you tell us what happened that night?"

Ginny didn't answer, but curled tighter on herself. Five years later, she was still hurting, badly. As bad as Harry hurt when nobody believed him? As bad as Harry hurt when his godfather was lost?

"Would it help if we only retrieved your memory?"

Ginny nodded jerkily, and an Auror came forward, wand outstretched. He moved slowly, but she still jumped like a startled rabbit when the wand touched her temple.

"Just think of that memory," the Auror said gently, "and I'll do the rest."

The Auror pulled his wand back, long silvery strands of thought clinging to the tip, and siphoned them into a large Pensieve. He retreated from Ginny, who still sat hunched in on herself, and slotted the Pensieve into a niche in a table at the front of the room. Touching a symbol on the bowl, the memory started to play.

They watched as Ginny sat at one end of the Gryffindor table, chatting with her friends, looking no worse for wear after her recent ordeal. They watched as she gestured animatedly, a happy girl. Many of the spectators were comparing the happy girl in the memory to the broken, battered thing in the chair. There were more than a few wet eyes in that courtroom.

They watched as the Great Hall doors slammed open. Watched as Harry Potter stood there, cheeks pale, eyes flat. Looking into those eyes, those sitting there saw that, not only was nobody home, but there was a for sale sign out front. Total vacancy.

They watched as the wand came up. Saw him casting silently into the silent Hall. Saw Colin Creevey go down, face first into a bowl of potatoes. Saw five more students go down before anyone reacted. And still, no change of expression.

The members of the DA, Harry's group were the first to react. Numerous _Incarcerous_ and stunning spells started flying from their wands as they stood up from their tables and tried to subdue the rampaging teen. However, not a single curse hit him as Harry ducked and dodged every single one, showcasing a stunning set of reflexes. He had taught them all they knew about defence, but not all he knew himself. He was dancing. It was amazing to watch, even in the midst of the tragedy.

And then, Ginny was rising. She was bringing her wand up, even as tears trailed down her cheek. The audience watched as a simple cutting hex sailed toward Harry, at the same time as a stunning spell sailed, from higher up, behind him. They all watched him duck the stunning spell, bringing his neck right in line with the cutting hex.

The spell hit Harry's carotid artery, causing blood to fountain out from his neck. The audience flinched collectively as they heard Ginny's terrified scream as she bolted from behind the table, slipping and sliding in the blood to get to him. She fell to her knees, desperately reaching for the small wound, trying to pinch it shut, unable to get a grip due to all the blood. And then they heard what nobody else had. Harry's last words, spoken so only Ginny heard them, as she knelt, alone, in the growing puddle of Harry's blood.

5

8 May, 1995

_Dumbledore's gone. Saw it happen. Umbridge couldn't claim the head's office, threw a right tantrum, I heard._

_She hauled me in for one more detention. I tried one last time to go to McGonagall. She brushed me off. Just like the teacher did back in primary school. Big surprise._

_Seriously giving thought to just running. Not like anyone will miss me. All Ron and Hermione do is ask questions and try to make me more like them. They don't understand. Or won't understand I don't know which._

_Sirius is at least trying. Gave me a mirror to talk to him. He's starting to figure out I'm not like my father. Wish Snape would._

_Snape kicked me out of his office yesterday; he threw a jar of bugs at me. Reminds me of dear Vernon and Petunia and how they used to act in that ... place. Saw my father being a bully. Didn't really bother me much, once I thought about it. Snape never grew up and he's still a bully himself. He couldn't teach a fish to get wet, let alone Occlumency._

_Oh, here comes Hermione again. Probably wants to ask more damn questions. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to smack her. That'd shut her up real quick._

-From the diary of Harry Potter

# # #

Day five: It was Hermione's turn on the stand. She decided she would hand in the notebooks. Harry was so, so troubled. It was really no wonder what he'd said to Ginny at his last moments.

She was clutching the thin spiral bound notebooks to her chest as she made her way to the stand. They received curious glances, but nobody thought much about it; this was Hermione, after all, research fanatic.

She took the seat and looked up at the high bench.

"You are Hermione Jean Granger?" Bones asked.

"Yes."

""Do you have anything to add to the testimony we've already heard?"

Hermione hesitated. "Not directly, Madam Bones. However, I have come across new information that might shed some light on Harry Potter's state of mind."

There were sounds of interest at this. Nobody knew what was going on in his head; they only dealt with the aftermath. "Please do share with us, then, Miss Granger," Bones said.

"Harry once told us he used to hide things under a floorboard in his room. I went to his house five days ago and found his diaries."

"And why didn't you bring these to the court's attention immediately?" Bones asked, frowning severely.

Hermione fidgeted. "Well, I w-wanted to read them first, he was my best friend…I wanted to understand…" she stopped, turning the notebook over and over in her hands.

"Very well, I can understand, but be aware that withholding evidence can be punished," Bones said, softening her expression.

Hermione nodded vigorously. "I apologize, Madam Bones, but I had to read them."

"What did you discover from them, Miss Granger?"

So Hermione told them: All about his dark thoughts on the magical world, his doubts about the sincerity of her and Ron's friendship, his uncertainty regarding the nature of friendship itself. She told them about reactive attachment disorder, his inability to trust anyone. And then, she read them the last entry.

25 June, 1995

_So that's it. I'm supposed to be a murderer or be murdered. That's what my whole life is all about. I am not supposed to be happy. I am supposed to kill so that everyone else may live._

_I'm sitting here by the black lake, watching the squid swim... Everything kills ... From the smallest bug to the largest redwood over in California. Everything is a game of murder. Murder so that one may live._

_I watched Sirius die. I was told about the prophecy last night. Did nothing but think about it ever since. Kill or be killed, live or die. But does it matter? There will always be someone else terrorizing weaker beings. Voldemort is just another Uncle Vernon, only on a larger scale. I couldn't do anything against Uncle Vernon. What makes Dumbledore think I can do anything against someone like Voldemort?_

_Love is my greatest power, he says. I think he means for me to sacrifice myself. This is my blood, shed for you and for many. Jesus I am not._

_I've never killed anyone before. I've never really thought about it, not seriously anyway. But now I have to. It's my destiny. The prophecy says so. And both Dumbledore and Voldemort set store by it._

_Blood, sweat, tears. I gave it all ... But only in defence of myself, really. I saved the stone because I didn't want Voldemort to come after me. I saved Ginny because Hogwarts was about to close and I didn't want to go back to the Dursleys. I saved Sirius for the same reason. Everyone says I have a saving people thing. I have a saving myself thing, instead. Couldn't save Cedric, could I? Couldn't save Sirius in the end either._

_Everything dies. I've already established that. Why not me? If I'm supposed to die to save everyone, why shouldn't I?_

_How to make it happen though is the question. I'm locked up tight here, can't go seek out Voldemort. Don't even know where he is. Maybe let the Dursleys do it? God knows they want to._

_Ah, I have it now. I will die so others may live. Like Dumbledore wanted. I am disposable, a tool of fate. It all makes sense now…_

Hermione stopped reading. Tears were coursing down her face. Many people in the gallery were weeping freely as well, including Dumbledore. "Oh Harry, how we have failed you," she heard him say brokenly.

"Is there anything more?" asked Bones in a slightly choked voice.

"No, Ma'am," Hermione said, sniffling. "It ends there."

There was silence in the courtroom. All of them were remembering Harry's last words, as he bled out on the hall floor. Ginny was kneeling beside him, sobbing, trying to staunch the flow of blood. And he had reached up with one trembling hand. Pulled her close by the collar and whispered his last words.

"Thank you. I have met the enemy, and the enemy is me."

And then he died. A black mist rose from the scar on his forehead and faded with a triumphant laugh, then a scream. Not many noticed that last part, however. Dumbledore did, though. And he realized what it meant: the piece of soul implanted in Harry's head all those years ago had most likely been subtly manipulating poor Harry all his life, culminating in this bloody finale.

Ginny had been haunted by Harry's final words for the past five years. He had thanked her. And she had done nothing but squeak at him for five years, hadn't bothered to realize he needed help. None of them had.

Harry's death was ruled accidental. That word, suicide, wasn't mentioned in any of the judicial opinions or in the newspaper. Voldemort had been killed two years ago by a gang of witches and wizards, nearly three hundred in all. So Harry was right. He had died, so they might live.

Three years later, the body of Ginny Weasley was found in the small flat she had rented. Everyone had thought she was finally getting over the trauma, but apparently it had become too much for her one day, and she had snapped. She was buried in the Weasley cemetery behind the Burrow.

The Weasleys all left the old house. There were too many memories there. They could swear they could see the ghosts of happier times in the back garden, after Ginny died ... A red haired little girl and a black haired little boy frolicking with the gnomes.

But they left and moved to London. And whatever walked the grounds of the Burrow, walked alone.


	11. Yet Another Tent Scene Story

Yet Another Tent Scene Story

By Opopanax

A/N: In revenge for all those happy tent scene stories out there. Not really ment to be taken too seriously. Little mostly undeveloped ficlet.

* * *

"So why are you still here?" Harry asked Ron.

"Search me," said Ron.

"Go home then," said Harry.

"Yeah, maybe I will!" shouted Ron, and he took several steps toward Harry, who did not back away. "Didn't you hear what they said about my sister? But you don't give a rat's fart, do you, it's only the Forbidden Forest, Harry I've-Faced-Worse Potter doesn't care what happens to her in here-well, I do, all right, giant spiders and mental stuff-"

"I was only saying-she was with the others, they were with Hagrid-"

"Yeah, I get it, you don't care! And what about the rest of my family, "the Weasleys don't need another kid injured," did you hear that?"

"Yeah, I-"

"Not bothered what it meant, though?"

"Ron!" said Hermione, forcing her way between them. "I don't think it means anything new has happened, anything we don't know about; think, Ron, Bill's already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you're supposed to be on your deathbed with spattergroit, I'm sure that's all he meant-"

"Oh, you're sure, are you? Right then, well, I won't bother myself about them. It's all right for you two, isn't it, with your parents safely out of the way-"

"My parents are dead!" Harry bellowed.

"And mine could be going the same way!" yelled Ron.

"Then GO!" roared Harry. "Go back to them, pretend you've got over your spattergroit and Mummy'll be able to feed you up and-"

Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted, but before either wand was clear of its owner's pocket, Hermione had raised her own.

"Protego!" she cried, and an invisible shield expanded between her and Harry on the one side and Ron on the other; all of them were forced backward a few steps by the strength of the spell, and Harry and Ron glared from either side of the transparent barrier as though they were seeing each other clearly for the first time. Harry felt a corrosive hatred toward Ron: Something had broken between them. Yet in another part of his mind, he wasn't surprised at all; ever since fourth year he knew Ron couldn't really be counted on in a pinch. Whenever the going got really tough, Ron would back down. And here was the final proof.

"Leave the Horcrux," Harry said quietly.

Ron yanked it off, tossed it in a chair and turned to Hermione. "What about you, are you coming?"

"No," Hermione said, looking anguished, "no, I'm staying, we said we'd help-"

""Yeah, I get it, you choose him, always have," Ron snarled, and stormed out of the tent.

Hermione started to follow him, but Harry grabbed her arm. "Let him be," he said quietly. "This isn't the first time he's abandoned us … me-and I think we're probably better off without him."

"How can you say that, Harry?" she asked, staring at him.

"Let's think," Harry said, tapping his chin, "he made you cry and almost got you killed by a troll; he's always putting you down, making fun of your study habits; laughing at your desire to free house-elves; he was carrying on with Lavender to make you jealous last year; he abandoned me in fourth year, he's always fucking jealous because I have more money than him … do I need to go on?"

Hermione gaped at him for a moment, then stared at him hard. "He came with us to save the Philosopher's Stone; he sacrificed himself on that chess board; he came to rescue you from your relatives that one time, he stood on a broken leg and tols Sirius that he'd have to go through him first to get to you, he came with us to the Ministry. You're being very ungrateful, Harry."

"Ungrateful? I'm being ungrateful? I saved his sister second year, I saved all of your arses first year, I saved his father fifth year, and I'm being ungrateful?"

"Yes, you are," she said, looking determined. Just because he's not perfect doesn't mean you have to come down on him like that."

"Unbelieveable," Harry muttered. "Un fucking believeable. After all that crap he does to you and you have to go and defend him."

"He said all that because he was worried about his family!" Hermioen cried, pacing around the tent and looking at Harry. "I bet anything he'll regret it shortly and come back."

"And what, he thinks I'm not worried about them too? D'you remember I told you both not to come with me, to stay with your families? But no, it's all my fault because Dumbledore didn't give me all the information I need. When things go wrong, let's blame Harry and we'll take the credit when things go right, isn't that how it is?"

Hermione gaped at him. "What's gotten into you? We certainly don't think like that."

"Oh please," Harry said, sneering eerily like Snape. "Like I said to Ron, I've heard you two whispering behind my back, you're disappointed, upset that I didn't have more to go on even though I told you everything."

"I didn't say it like that, Harry, really I didn't," Hermione said, and she was crying now, her tears falling as fast as the rain outside. "Ok, well, maybe a little, she said, voice hitching, "but honestly Harry, it's not as bad as you're making it sound."

"Really? Why don't you clarify it for me, then," Said Harry, sarcasm practically dripping off his words, making Hermione wince.

"Well, ok, we were disappointed that you didn't have more information, but I swear Harry, I wasn't blaming you," she said, coming to stand in front of him and staring earnestly into his eyes. Not for the first time, Harry noticed what pretty eyes they were. Deep and dark and beautiful, even brimming with tears. All his anger at Ron, all his doubts about himself and his quest, his frustration with Dumbledore's habbit of keeping information to himself-all that retreated and he leaned forward.

His lips met Hermione's.

And she shoved him backward.

"Harry! What the hell was that about?"

"Oh, Hermione, I've loved you for years," he said, emotions shining in his eyes. "You've been the only one to stand by me constantly from the beginning. You always believed in me, been there to knock some sense into me when I needed it."

Hermione was backing further and further away from him, eyes wide, shaking her head back and forth, muttering "no, no, no," under her breath.

"Hermione? What's wrong?"

"You can't love me! I love Ron!" she burst out.

Harry gaped. "R-Ron? You love Ron Walking-Food-disposal Weasley?"

"Don't talk about him like that! Besides, it's unhealthy to love you, you're going to die!"

"W-what? What makes you say that?" In spite of the fact that he had thought so himself, many times, it hurt to have his best friend, the woman he loved, tell him so. She was supposed to believe in him, no matter what.

Hermione apparently got some of her equilibrium back, but she was still breathing a little hard. "Oh come on, Harry, he's got fifty years of experience over you, he knows more about magic than almost anyone else alive. The only bit of magic you can really do is the Patronus, since you never listened to me about studying harder. The prophecy says 'neither can live while the other survives.' You are probably going to die to defeat him, therefore getting into any kind of relationship with you would be stupid."

"Thanks Hermione, it's nice to finally find out what you think of me," Harry said emotionlessly. "I should've known. You know what, why don't you go to the Burrow with Ron, it's where you really want to be."

"You know, you're probably right. I'm sorry, Harry, really I am, but it just can't happen between us," Hermione said, and more tears fell as she turned away and got her beaded bag. "Goodbye Harry," she said, before heading out the tent.


	12. Lower Life Forms

Lower Life Forms

By Opopanax

A/n: Yeah, not a creative title. This takes place in chapter 28 of HBP. So spoilers. Another little undeveloped ficlet.

* * *

Harry stiffened like a dog on point, taking Professor Trelawney slightly aback.

"A voice? Saying what?"

"I don't know that it was saying anything," said Professor Trelawney. "It was ... whooping."

"Whooping?"

"Gleefully," she said, nodding.

Harry stared at her.

"Was it male or female?"

"I would hazard a guess at male," said Professor Trelawney.

"And it sounded happy?"

"Very happy," said Professor Trelawney sniffily.

"As though it was celebrating?"

"Most definitely."

There was a little more blather about the so called inner eye, but Harry _knew_ it was Draco Malfoy, and he had finally finished whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. No matter that Ron and Hermione didn't believe him, Harry knew, just knew, that he was right, and whatever Malfoy was doing did not bode well. If Malfoy was celebrating, everyone else should be worried, very worried indeed.

Trelawney gave a token protest about not wanting to press her company on Dumbledore, but Harry knew she really wanted to; after all, it wasn't every day you get thrown headfirst out of a room by a gleefully whooping voice, and it made a fine story.

Harry was busy speculating on what Malfoy might've been doing in the room of requirement. He was almost in a trance, trying to figure it out, and then it came to him in a quick shock of revelation.

He remembered, hiding the Prince's book in that vast room of hidden things, the broken vanishing cabinet, and then an associated memory, a similar cabinet in that horrible shop in Knockturn Alley, Borgin and Burkes, where Malfoy had gone at the beginning of the year, talking about a pair of something-yes, it had to be the vanishing cabinet, and he was going to use its mate in Borgin and Burkes to let Death Eaters into the school.

His whole body went icy cold and he stumbled a step. The shock of his revelation brought him back to the present, where Professor Trelawney was droning on.

"I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore," Professor Trelawney was saying, in throaty tones. "He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed. ... I was staying at the Hog's Head, which I do not advise, incidentally-bedbugs, dear boy-but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room. He questioned me. ... I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed toward Divination ... and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day ... but then ..."

Feling torn in too many directions, Harry suddenly found himself paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort.

"... but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!"

"What?" Harry felt another wave of icy cold wash over him, but this was cold rage. He had a suspicion as to where this was going, and, meeting or no meeting, nothing was going to keep him from visiting his favorite potions master if he was right.

"Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore-you see, he himself was seeking a job at the

time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at keyholes-Harry?"

Harry had stopped dead in the corridor. To hear his suspicions verified had made it all real for him. It was Snape, that greasy, batlike idiotic son of a bitch who had pointed Voldemort at him, it was Ffucking severus Snape's fault that Harry had grown up in a cupboard, not knowing of his history, it was that motherfucking piece of human flotsam that had helped rip away his family, and he, Harry James Potter, was going to make that piece of shit sorry he was ever born.

Ignoring Professor Trelawney's squawks from behind him, Harry tore off down the corridor, heading for the dungeons (Snape still lived down there; he was Slytherin head of house) to visit his friend, the potions master.

He had a plan, he was going to execute it, and with any luck-

His thoughts broke off evenly, as though he was a radio. Luck, that's what he needed. Snape was a skilled duelist and Harry wouldn't stand a chance against him.

"Dobby!" called Harry, standing still on the fourth floor.

With a crack, the excited house-elf appeared. "Master Harry called Dobby?"

"Dobby, go to my trunk and get the brown socks in the bottom, and the invisibility cloak on top, right now, it's urgent," said Harry, pacing in the corridor now with barely suppressed rage still running high.

Without a word, the elf disappeared, and ten seconds later he was back, clutching the socks. "Here they are, Master Harry Potter, sir," he said.

"Thanks, Dobby, you can go now."

The elf nodded, hugged Harry's legs and disappeared with another crack.

# # #

Albus Dumbledore paced around his office. Harry was late. He was on a very tight schedule.

Dumbledore had found the fake Horcrux earlier this year, but was only now taking Harry to get it. He needed to learn the importance of perseverance and he needed to watch the world fall apart, so that he would be willing to sacrifice himself when the time came. Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape were key figures in his plans for Harry, to show him what Death Eaters were capable of. By now Draco would have fixed the cabinet, and Death Eaters would be coming into the school, and Severus would be waiting to kill Dumbledore.

Dumbledore glanced at his watch. Harry was ten minutes late. Where was he?

Just then, a knock came at his door.

"Enter," he said, fighting to keep the irritability out of his voice.

The gauzy figure of Sybill Trelawney clanked in, looking more aware of her surroundings than usual. Dumbledore sighed, he didn't need this headache now, but he decided to give her a few minutes.

"Good evening, Sibill, what can I do for you?" asked Dumbledore.

"Good evening, Headmaster. The inner eye has told me to come here tonight, and I fear some of the things it has shown me, but I must also confess to some worry about young Harry Pottter."

Dumbledore perked up a bit. "Did you see him in the corridors, Sybill?"

"Why yes, yes I did. We were having a conversation, you know, about how I got the Divination post, and something came over him and he ran somewhere."

Paling slightly, Dumbledore looked into Sybill's eyes and, using a bit of barely detectable Legilimency, got a flash of memory, the conversation from earlier where she discussed how Snape had been caught listening in to the prophecy. Harry no doubt was rushing down to confront Snape now, which absolutely must not happen. Harry did not have all the information about Snape's motives and would no doubt ruin Dumbledore's plans.

"Thank you, Sybill, for alerting me. I will go see to young Harry," said Dumbledore, keeping the twinkle in his eye by sheer force of will.

"Beware the lightning stuck tower, Headmaster," said Sybill, drifting back into her dreamy self and out the door, completely forgetting about the reason she had come to Dumbledore in the first place. Tiny Obliviates were wonderful things, and Dumbledore didn't have time to deal with his batty Divination professor at the moment.

Grabbing his cloak, Dumbledore hurried out of his office, hoping to avert the disaster before it started.

# # #

Harry took a tiny sip of the Felix Felicis, barely a mouthful; he only needed a couple of hours. His rage began to bleed away and he felt the calm exhilaration which came with the liquid luck. He knew what to do.

Throwing the cloak over himself, he hurried off down the secret passage behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, just in time to miss Dumbledore coming the opposite direction, trying to find him.

Coming out from behind a tapestry on the first floor, Harry ducked down the stairs, just in time to avoid Ron and Hermione, who were looking for him as well. And now, here he was, standing outside Snape's office door.

Once again, he knew what to do, thanks to Felix. Taking off his cloak and stashing it in his pocket, Harry pulled his wand, aimed it at the door and screamed, "Reducto!"

The door blasted into flinders and Harry charged into the office, to see a very surprised Severus Snape sitting behind his desk over fifth year essays. Harry caught the name of his girlfriend Ginny before the rage fell over his eyes again.

Snape was quick however-scary quick. Before Harry had gotten halfway across the room, Snape's wand was up and pointing at him.

"Stop right there, Potter," he hissed, wand steady.

HHarry ignored him, and kept coming. Snape was about to fire a disarming charm at him, but Harry got there first.

The shrieks of Severus Snape as Harry grabbed his left thumb and snapped it backward were music to Harry's ears. "Don't you dare move or I'll rip this thumb right off you, you fucking bastard," Harry said, getting right up in Snape's face. "I'll turn you into afucking lower life form, no opposable thumbs, do you hear me?"

Snape didn't answer, but attempted to bring up his wand hand to curse Harry. Harry was expecting this, and snapped the thumb he was holding even further back, while grabbing the thumb of the other hand, causing the wand to fall with a clatter. Most wizards were thoroughly unprepared for a physical assault, and Harry took advantage of this.

"I will see you expelled for this, Potter, assaulting a teacher, even your arrogant father-" Snape started to say, but broke off in a shriek as Harry snapped the thumbs backward.

"You shut up, fucker, or I'll do more than rip off your thumbs. It's your fault, all of it," Harry said, Felix Ttelling him to turn so that Snape's back was facing the door instead of his.

"You are the one who told the prophecy to Voldemort. You are the one who is responsible for the hell that is my life. Only you!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter-aaaaaaaagh!" Snape screamed as Harry yanked on his thumbs, really twisting them now. "How do you think you're going to brew your precious fucking potions if I pull these off, huh? How do you think you're going to bottle fame, brew glory and put a fucking stopper in death, you murdering son of a bitch?" Harry panted, getting right up in Snape's face. He had never been so angry, never, not even the night he blew up Marge. "You pointed Voldemort at me and my parents, all so you could get a little more recognition from him, didn't you? And then he told you to spy on Dumbledore, so you got a job here, bet that really tickled your fancy, getting one over on the old bastard didn't it!"

Harry was panting in his fury and Snape was growing paler by the second. "You've got it all wrong, Potter," he said, trying once more to yank his hands out of Harry's grip. "It wasn't like that-"

"No, I bet you don't think it was," said Harry. "Dumbledore knew it was you who had told the prophecy, so he probably blackmailed you or something, but I don't give a fuck, it's still all your fault."

Just then, Dumbledore came sweeping in through the blasted apart doorway, wand raised. But Harry knew he was coming, thanks to Felix, so he ducked down letting Snape's back take the Disarming Curse. Snape staggered and tripped slightly, causing his thumbs to be yanked even further back with ominous cracking sounds, which further caused him to shriek. More music to Harry's ears.

"Harry! Release Severus at once!" Dumbledore thundered, trying to get a shot at Harry, who kept turning so Snape was always facing him.

"Fuck you, old man!" Harry screamed, nimbly bending backward as Snape attempted to headbutt him. "Now, leave me alone, old man, or I'll kill this fucking son of a bitch right now. The way I feel, I could easily cast a Killing Curse!"

"You do not have all the facts, Harry!" Dumbledore said urgently, ignoring Severus's renewed shrieks. "Severus loved your mother-"

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. "Yeah, that's why he sent a homicidal maniac after her."

"I didn't know!" screamed Snape as Harry twisted his thumbs like doorknobs, loving the crackling sounds they made. "I brought him the prophecy, yes, I admit that, but I did not know it referred to your mother."

"So you think that excuses you, does it? 'Oh, I didn't know that a homicidal madman was going to murder somebody based on my information, I'm totally blameless,' right?"

"Harry, stop! Rlease Severus and let us talk this over like rational human beings."

Harry snarled and, with a final yank which succeeded in breaking the greasy man's thumbs, he sent him sprawling backward on the floor. Ignoring Dumbledore, he stamped his foot on Snape's wand as he left. He had had enough.

"Harry! Come back here this instant!"

Harry ignored him and ducked down another secret passageway heading for Gryffindor Tower. He would ask Dobby to take him out of here and to Gringotts. He was through fighting for the man who condoned Death Eaters as professors.

He would break the Vanishing Cabinet so Death Eaters wouldn't get into the school-at least not today-and he would send a letter to his friends advising him to hurry and get the hell out of Hogwarts.

Arriving at the tower, Harry ran upstairs, packed up his trunk, and called for Kreacher.

"Filthy half blood master called Kreacher?" the mad elf rumbled in his bullfrog voice.

"Take this trunk to Grimmauld Place and do not make any detours on your way there," Harry said firmly. "Lock the house against anyone but me as well. "Go now."

"As master wishes," croaked the elf, but with a little more respect than usual, before disappearing with another crack.

"Dobby," Harry called.

"Yes Harry Potter Sir," squeaked Dobby, appearing in front of him.

"Take me to the room of hidden things, right now," said Harry urgently.

After arriving via the elf's peculiar mode of travel, which felt roughly like floo travel and a portkey, Harry rushed down the aisles of junk, listening carefully for Malfoy. He had put silencing charms on his feet and slung the invisibility cloak over him, so he was going a little faster than usual.

But, silenced or not, he was still solid, and he crashed right through Malfoy's privacy wards before realizing it. He was still extremely pissed off at Snape and Dumbledore, so his magic was a little wild, and thus broke through Malfoy's rather pathetic barriers easily.

As a result, he crashed straight into Malfoy, both of them ending up in an undignified heap on the floor.

Only it wasn't quite that easy. Malfoy came down neck first on a heavy, horribly stained ax, which, due to the magical properties imbued in the metal, was still sharp as the day it was made. It sliced into Malfoy's neck like a hot knife through ripe cheese, causing blood to gush all over the floor.

Harry, in his shock, leapt backward from Malfoy as hard as he could, which caused his back to crash into the newly repaired Vanishing Cabinet. The cabinet fell over, causing a minor avalanche, and cracked into pieces on a stone something or other behind it.

"Oh shit," Harry muttered, looking at Malfoy's rapidly dying corpse. "Well, so much for that."

With a final gurgle, the Malfoy heir died, not having any idea who had crashed into him.

Harry thought for a moment. He did not want anyone to find out that he murdered Malfoy, even if it was by accident. So he decided to take a page out of Crouch Junior's book. Waving his wand, Malfoy was transfigured into an empty bottle, and the blood was cleaned off the floor. Harry picked up the bottle and tossed it with all his might into the heaps of junk, where it fell somewhere in the distance. Nobody would ever find him again.

Deciding that nothing else needed to be done here, Harry called for Dobby and he disappeared to Gringotts.

* * *

A/N: I leave it to your imagination what happened with Snape, Dumbledore and the rest of the wizarding world. I just had to get that out there, because I find snape an utterly reprehensible human being. Severus Snape is a small minded, arrogant, bigoted bully with no redeeming qualities. He did not spy on Voldemort out of bravery, he did it to save his own skin and because he was blackmailed by Dumbles.. What did Severus Snape ever do that didn't directly benefit Severus Snape?


	13. Snapshots

Snapshots

By Opopanax

These are small snippets from canon where Harry or others do small things to change the outcome of events. I'm sure it'll be self explanatory.

1: You've Got to be Kidding!

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. … Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. … The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies. …"

The slowly revolving Professor Trelawney sank back into the silver mass below and vanished.

Then, the silence in the office was broken by a sound Dumbledore didn't expect to hear: the sound of Harry laughing. "You've got to be kidding me," Harry gasped out between gusts of laughter. "You were interviewing that ... that fraud for a job, and she goes into her usual theatrics and spouts a prophecy and you, you gullible fool, believed it! Oh my god, that is just too rich." And Harry laughed some more.

"I assure you," said Dumbledore rather stiffly, "that the prophecy is quite genuine-"

Abruptly Harry stopped laughing and stood up to lean over the Headmaster's desk. "No it isn't, old man. Even if it is, it is only now genuine because you and the other old fool Riddle decided to make it so. Well guess what? I refuse to submit. There is such a thing as free will and I refuse to accept the word of a drunken fraud and a condoner of child abuse." Harry grinned ferally at Dumbledore's surprised look. "'ten dark and difficult years'," he mocked, now pacing around the office. "Did you think I'd forgive and forget that? Ten dark and difficult years all because you believed a drunken fucking fraud. Well I refuse. Good luck with Riddle, Headmaster." And Harry turned and walked out of the office.

2: Contract?

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," growled Moody, "but … funny thing … I don't hear him saying a word. …"

"Oh I've got a few things to say, I was just waiting for all of you to finish," said Harry, speaking up at last, cutting off Fleur who looked as though she was about to pitch a hissy fit. "And I don't think that there is a binding magical contract in place, at least in my case."

"There most certainly is, Potter," said Crouch stiffly, insulted that he was being told that he was wrong.

"No there ain't," said Harry, deliberately using bad grammar to provoke the stiff bureaucrat. "If there was, all someone would've had to do was to write a magically binding contract telling Voldemort to quit killing or lose his magic. Since nobody did that, it's quite obvious that someone can't be forced into a contract against their will.

"So if you'll excuse me," finished Harry, resisting the urge to laugh at all the gaping mouths, "I'll be off now." And he slammed out of the antechamber.

3: The Cave

Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at moonlit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the past. It was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand.

"What do you think?" asked Dumbledore. He might have been asking Harry's opinion on whether it was a good site for a picnic.

"I think," said Harry, looking at all the rocks, "that we should've brought brooms. No way am I going swimming in that. Dobby!"

There was a crack, and the mad little house-elf appeared, goggling at his surroundings. "Mr. Harry Potter is calling Dobby?"

"Yeah. Go into the broom shed at the school and bring my Firebolt."

"Ingenius," murmured Dumbledore, looking at Harry with some respect.

Five seconds later, Dobby appeared again, and Harry helped the Headmaster to clamber behind him on the broom. They glided over the sharp rocks and foaming sea, and came to a soft landing in the opening of the cave.

Later, they did the same thing, bypassing the rickety boat and coming to land on the island in the middle of the preternaturally still lake with the dead corpses floating just under the surface. There was an odd, eldrich light in the middle of it, and it was very erie, gliding across that inky expanse toward it.

The island was no larger than Dumbledore's office, an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but the source of that greenish light, which looked much brighter when viewed close to. Harry squinted at it; at first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin rather like the Pensieve, which was set on top of a pedestal.

They approached the basis, which, Harry saw, was filled with a poisonous looking green potion.

"You think the Horcrux is in there, sir?"

"Oh yes." Dumbledore peered more closely into the basin. Harry saw his face reflected, upside down, in the smooth surface of the green potion. "But how to reach it? This potion cannot be penetrated by hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made to change its nature."

Almost absentmindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand again, twirled it once in midair, and then caught the crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere.

"I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to be drunk."

"That's easy, then," said Harry, shrugging and pulling a used chocolate frog wrapper out of his pocket. "Turn this wrapper into a dog and feed the potion to it. You don't know what it'll do to you. Probly debilitate you in some way; I don't think he'd want you to die just yet."

"Now why didn't I think of that?" muttered Dumbledore.

4: Going to the Dogs

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" said Ron finally. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does."

Hermione had got both her breath and her bad temper back again.

"You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" she snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

"The floor?" Harry suggested. "I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads."

"No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously guarding something."

She stood up, glaring at them.

"I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed - or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

"Well, I don't like having that damn thing here," said Harry. "I'm going to find out if there are police in the wizarding world and write to them."

"That'd be Amelia Bones," squeaked Neville faintly. "She's the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"That's the first smart thing I've heard you say all term," said Hermione from the stairs, looking at Harry with new respect. "Good night, all."

Madam Bones was definitely shocked when she received Harry Potter's letter, and she, along with a squad of ten Aurors, descended on Hogwarts. Dumbledore was soundly reprimanded and all his little traps were dismantled. Amidst all the hubbub, the disappearance of Professor Quirrell went almost unnoticed. As a result, Harry and Ron never became friends with Hermione, although she did stop snapping at them so often.

5: Slytherin out of Trouble

"Right," said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils were flared, "that's got him out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories."

Before Ron could stop him, Harry stood up and slammed out of the wardrobe. "Potter!" Snape snarled, but Harry ignored him.

"Professor McGonagall! We know what the monster is, and I'm begging you to listen to me," said Harry. He was frantic. He didn't want Hogwarts to close.

Professor McGonagall looked as though she wanted to brush him off, but perhaps remembering the previous year, nodded with thin lips. "Very well, MR. Potter, speak, but be quick."

"The monster is a basilisk and the entrance is in that girls' bathroom on the second floor," Harry got out in a rush. "Nobody looked at it directly so they didn't die. Mrs. Noris saw the reflection in the water; Collin saw it through his camera; Justin saw it through Nearly Headless Nick; and Hermione and Penelope used that mirror."

There was a stunned silence. Like most riddles, the answer seemed extremely obvious once pointed out. Harry could almost hear the "Duh!" ringing around the room.

"That all seems very obvious now," said Professor McGonagall. "Slytherin's symbol is a snake and Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth. Which means you probably need to be one to enter his chamber," she finished, shooting a sharp look at Harry.

"I didn't open it," Harry said, repressing with great difficulty the urge to snap in exasperation. "Hermione is my best friend, why-"

"I am aware that you didn't open the chamber, Mr. Potter," said Professor McGonagall, slightly exasperated herself. "However you will probably need to accompany us. You will not be dealing with the basilisk, Parselmouth or not, though; this is a job for the teachers."

So Harry led Professors Snape and McGonagall down into the Chamber of Secrets, where McGonagall transfigured a rock into a rooster to kill the basilisk, and Professor Snape shot a Killing Curse at the shade of Tom Riddle, which exploded. Basilisk venom and Killing Curses being the two most effective ways to kill a Horcrux.

Harry was never bitten by a basilisk. Lockhart never lost his memories, although his booksales went down after it was discovered that he had run out on the school during a time of crisis. Harry never freed Dobby, and he eventually died at the hands of the Malfoys, two years later.

Hagrid did get cleared of the old charges and was allowed to purchase a new wand. He also received his Creatures mastery and took up the position of Care of Magical Creatures professor.

6: Kissin Cousins

Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water.

Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and lightless - the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.

Harry suddenly realized what was happening: Dementors. Dementors, here, in little Whinging. What the fuck!

He was then faced with a choice. Conjure the Patronus Charm to save his cousin and risk expulsion, or get the hell out of there and hope for the best? What did he really owe Dudley anyway? Was he worth getting expelled from Hogwarts over? Harry had a brief nightmarish vision of being stuffed into Azkaban surrounded by Dementors all day and all night, just like his godfather, and he shuddered. Decision made.

Harry turned and ran as fast as he could, away from the cold, leaving his cousin on the ground. He wasn't going to jail for that bully.

As it turned out, he went to jail anyway, for letting a Muggle get kissed when he could've prevented it. Remus Lupin and Hermione Granger both testified that he could perform the Patronus Charm, and it was upon their testimony that he was sent to Azkaban. He committed suicide by bashing his head repeatedly against a stone wall in his cell, and nobody cared.

7: I Smell A Rat

"And two of us should be chained to this," said Black, nudging Pettigrew with his toe. "Just to make sure."

"I'll do it," said Lupin.

Harry had a sudden thought. In the furor of revelations tonight, it had totally escaped him, but seeing Snape floating brought it all back.

"Uh, we have a problem," he said, halting everybody as they headed for the exit. "Tonight's a full moon, and you forgot your potion, Professor Lupin."

Lupin paled and stopped dead. "Dammit," he muttered. "You're right, I totally forgot."

"Stupefy," snapped Black, pointing Snape's wand at Pettigrew, who slumped to the floor. "Send Dumbledore a messenger Patronus, Remus," he said, after binding Pettigrew with thin ropes. "Do it fast, the moon's about to rise, I think."

A silvery wolf shot out the end of Lupin's wand, and he muttered to it. The wolf shot out through the wall like a ghost.

"Perhaps we'd better get out of here," Harry said, shooting an uneasy look at the boarded windows.

"Good idea," Hermione said, shooting an uneasy look of her own at Remus.

Black levitated Pettigrew, Harry levitated Snape and Hermione helped Ron as they edged in single file toward the exit. "We'll see you in the morning, Professor," Harry said over his shoulder to Lupin, who was looking decidedly ill. Lupin only nodded, and they hurried on a little faster.

Dumbledore met them outside on the lawns, where he took charge of Pettigrew. True to form, the only evidence of his surprise was a slight lift of his eyebrow.

Fudge was all for having a Dementor kiss Sirius anyway, until it was gently pointed out that his incarceration without trial was an error of the previous administration and that, if he corrected it, it would raise his poll ratings.

Sirius went free, but Pettigrew escaped due to the ineptitude of the Aurors in casting anti-animagus wards Around his cell. Voldemort got his body a little early without the whole Triwizard Tournament fiasco. Due to Sirius needing to undergo some rehabilitation at St. Mungo's after all those years in Azkaban, Harry returned to Privet Drive. After having been told that he wasn't going to be there all summer or ever again, Vernon and Petunia allowed him to stay for a couple of weeks.

Pettigrew, in a rare show of brains, snuck into Privet Drive as a rat, slapped a portkey on Harry and used his blood in a ritual involving bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy. And because it was the dead of night, Harry didn't have his wand, and was dispatched forthwith.

Sometimes desirable happenings do not always have desirable outcomes.

8: My Cup Runneth Over

"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" he asked.

"Nope," said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. "Is this supposed to be part of the task?"

"I dunno," said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. "Wands out, d'you reckon?"

"Yeah," said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the suggestion rather than him.

Harry glanced around the graveyard. Something was wrong. This was definitely not part of the task. And he had the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched.

Giving in to his instincts and the feeling that something calamitous was about to happen, Harry quickly performed a banishing charm at the Triwzard Cup, sending it at Cedric. The latter, being an inveterate seeker, caught it and was whisked away to Hogwarts, the portkey enchantment now used up.

Cedric was saved. He was able to alert Dumbledore that Harry was missing, and that worthy was able to use Legilimency (with permission) to determine that Harry had been taken to the Little Hangleton cemetery. He and a squad of Aurors, plus Sirius Black, Apparated there and sent blasting curses at the cauldron, causing a massive magical explosion. Unfortunately, Harry Potter was decapitated by a flying piece of shrapnel. But Lord Voldemort wasn't able to be reborn, due to an unforeseen side effect of the ritual being interrupted. The shockwave traveled down the ephemeral links between the main soul and the Horcruxes, causing them all to coalesce and vanish in the magical backlash.

Thus did Lord Voldemort meet his ignominious end. And because it was Harry's actions which sent Cedric for help, one could argue that Voldemort died at Harry's hand.

9: The Fairest of them All

He waited for the second when the old man's heels disappeared over the threshold into the Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase and then more staircases toward the hospital wing, hurtling along the corridors so fast that the portraits he passed muttered reproaches, and burst through the double doors like a hurricane, causing Madam Pomfrey, who had been spooning some bright blue liquid into Montague's open mouth, to shriek in alarm.

"Potter, what do you think you're doing?"

"I need to see Professor McGonagall," gasped Harry, the breath tearing his lungs. "Now … It's urgent. …"

"She's not here, Potter," said Madam Pomfrey sadly. "She was transferred to St. Mungo's this morning. Four Stunning Spells straight to the chest at her age? It's a wonder they didn't kill her."

The shock of finding out that his irascible head of house was absent cleared a bit of the panic out of his brain and he thought frantically, hurtling out of the hospital wing toward Gryffindor tower. Sirius was trapped and there was no way for him to get there fast.

And then, as he passed a Ravenclaw seventh year coming out of a bathroom tucking a square compact into her handbag, he remembered the square package Sirius had given him at Christmas: "Use it if you need me, ok?" That must be a way for him to communicate with Sirius. It was his last hope.

Ignoring the calls of Ron and Hermione from the stairs below, Harry careened off to the tower, gasped out the password to the Fat Lady, and tore up the stairs to his dorm.

And there it was, the badly wrapped package stuffed into the bottom of his trunk.

Harry sank down onto his bed and unwrapped the package. Out fell a small, square mirror. It looked old; it was certainly dirty. Harry held it up to his face and saw his own reflection looking back at him.

He turned the mirror over. There on the reverse side was a scribbled note from Sirius.

_This is a two-way mirror. I've got the other. If you need to speak to me, just say my name into it; you'll appear in my mirror and I'll be able to talk in yours. James and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions._

"Sirius Black!" Harry called at the mirror, feeling slightly foolish.

About thirty agonizing seconds later, the haggard face of his godfather appeared in the mirror in front of him. "Yeah, Harry? Is there a problem?"

"Sirius! You're ok!"

"Of course I am," Sirius said, frowning slightly. "What makes you think I'm not?"

Harry explained about the vision he had had in the exam. "Nobody bothered to tell me Voldemort might send me false visions," he finished bitterly.

"Wait there, I'm going to alert the order,' said Sirius, looking at something out of sight beyond the mirror.

So Sirius never got to play with Bellatrix, Voldemort ended up getting seen in the Ministry because Harry wasn't there to get the prophecy and because Polyjuice Potion didn't work on Voldemort's magically constructed body. But, on the other hand, twenty Aurors died in the resulting battle, and three Death Eaters, among them Peter Pettigrew, which resulted in Sirius getting cleared and gaining custody of Harry.

Sometimes good things do actually happen to good people.

10: Nobody's Fool

Harry had just finished listening to Dumbledore's explanation about the conception of Voldemort, involving the memory of Bob Ogden and the brief history of the Gaunts.

"So, is this what your grand plan has been? Show me home movies about Voldemort's past all year long?" he asked.

"It is very important to know your enemy, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I am sure you will find it helpful."

"I doubt it, sir," said Harry. "You should be training me, not showing me home movies. He had a crappy home life at that orphanage, blah blah, believes everybody is scum under his boots, blah blah. I got it. Now, how about some real information to help me defeat him?"

"I am afraid that you must trust my judgement on this," said Dumbledore, a little sorrowfully.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," said Harry, with a slight sneer. "You see, your judgment got my godfather killed and me subjected to almost as crappy a life as Voldemort's. So either you give me real information or I'm not coming back to the Tom Riddle reality show."

"You must show me the respect due to my position, Harry. I am the leader of the light and you must trust me."

"If I did that, I'm sure you'd convince me to let myself get killed by Voldemort or something," Harry said.

A slight wince crossed over Dumbledore's face before he could stop it.

Harry, however, caught the look. "Ah ha. That's it, isn't it? You want me to walk out there and commit suicide by Voldemort."

"Harry, you must understand, it is the only way," said Dumbledore resignedly.

"No. I'm not interested in dying just yet. I'm not going to let you take all the credit."

"It's not like that," said Dumbledore a little desperately. "There's a bit of Voldemort's soul inside you, and only by letting him kill you can Voldemort be eliminated."

"That's pure unadulterated bullshit," said Harry flatly. "What about my mother's sacrifice being poison to Voldemort? And when he possessed me last year, I was able to drive him out. If there really was a bit of his soul in there with me, it should've gone too, right?"

Dumbledore was speechless for the first time in Harry's memory. "I shall have to look into this," he muttered, rubbing his nose and looking a bit defeated.

Harry, smirking a bit, got up and left the office. He wasn't entirely sure he was correct about the bit of soul, but he also knew that he wasn't just going to walk out there and essentially commit suicide either.


	14. Harry Potter and the Fluffkyries

Harry Potter and the Fluffkyries

Harry Potter and the Fluffkyries

A Crackfic

By Opopanax

A/N: This is my attempt at complete and utter randomness. Wildly different than my usual fair.

* * *

Seven year old Harry Potter lay painfully in his cupboard, counting off the minutes in his head until he could sneak out and get some food. He had made the mistake of coming home with higher marks than his cousin, which act was rewarded by his beloved uncle breaking his arm with a fire place poker and throwing his "ungrateful freak arse" into the cupboard for cheating.

Luckily for our poor little hero, he was able to heal pretty fast. His bones usually only took three or four days to heal after being broken, which was why he never bothered to tell anyone about the Dursleys' treatment; there was no evidence and nobody ever believed him.

After counting off an hour in his head, he was just about ready to get up off the tiny mattress in the cupboard to sneak into the kitchen when there was a loud popping sound and his face was full of a vast quantity of hair, and his chest felt like it had been kicked by a horse. Wheezing in astonishment, Harry raised his head and gaped.

Crammed into his cupboard were six tiny girls. Six tiny girls about a foot high, dressed in armor, carrying shiny axes. The armor gleamed garishly in the dim light that penetrated under the cupboard door. One of the tiny girls had landed on his chest, and it was her hard boot that had kicked him in the ribs.

"Er, who are you?" was all his befuddled mind could muster up. Nothing in his short life had prepared him for the sudden appearance of six miniature armor-clad, axe-wielding girls.

"We're fluffkyries!" sang out the girl who had landed on his chest, hopping up and down in excitement. "We've come to protect you! My name is Else! Sorry about the boots, dear, but sometimes we can be a little clumsy."

Else was slightly shorter than the rest, and she had a vast quantity of spiky red hair that seemed to wave about on its own, as though in a nonextant breeze. Her armor was green and decorated with a pattern of orange flowers. The axe she carried had a spike on one end that looked like a Hersheys kiss, and the handle was carved with unicorns. Her little face was wreathed in a beaming smile that Harry couldn't help but answer.

"I'm Ingrid!" said another girl with a bounce. Ingrid was the tallest one there, probably about a foot and a half. She was wearing armor decorated with polka dots and carrying a large purple axe with a handle decorated with fairies.

"Kari!" sang out another girl. She was also a foot high, but had massive quantities of dark blond curls trailing down her back. Like Else, these curls waved in a nonextant breeze. There was a green panda painted on Kari's breastplate, and Harry could've sworn the panda winked at him.

"Erika!" called a girl wearing red armor and spiky heels with neon pink stripes. Erika had short green hair, but unlike the others it lay perfectly still. Her axe was decorated with brightly colored fruits.

"Inga/Olga!" called a set of twins simultaneously. They were dressed identically in eye wateringly bright orange armor, and carrying axes colored with fluorescent blue birds. Their breastplates were decorated with two identical white kittens, who waved their tails and whiskers fetchingly.

"Er, nice to meet you," stammered Harry, who was still rather numb with shock. "Where did you all come from, anyway?"

"We're from Norway," said Else, bouncing on her toes and eyeing the cupboard door. "What're you doing in here, Harry?"

"This is my room," shrugged Harry.

Faster than he could follow, Else and Erika ran at the door. Their axes made a whirling sound, like propeller blades, as they twirled them through the air. In about three seconds flat, his cupboard door was reduced to flinders and splinters. "Out, Harry," Erika commanded, sounding entirely different than the bouncy, bubbly girl who had introduced herself. "It's time we had a nice chat with your family."

Harry didn't even think to wonder how they knew his name as he crawled out from his cupboard. He couldn't help but trust these little warriors.

Else, who seemed to be the leader of her little band, did something to her armor at the throat. "Dursley!" she boomed, in a voice entirely different from her normal high one. "Get your arse down here!"

Something fell to the floor upstairs with a crash. Harry stood in the corner, ready to watch the show.

Uncle Vernon came thundering down the stairs, but came to an abrupt halt at the bottom. Like Harry, he was brought up short by the sight of six axe-wielding little women, but unlike Harry, he was terrified.

"W-what are you freaks d-doing here?" he managed to splutter out.

Harry heard one of the twins growl. "You're the freaky one here, Dursley!" Else boomed, still in the unnatural voice. "And now it's time to face judgment for your actions!"

By this time, Petunia and Dudley had appeared on the stairs and were staring, slack jawed, at the little fluffkyries on the living room floor. Petunia looked horrified and Dudley just looked stupid, as per usual.

Vernon looked as though he was about to get his bluster back and perhaps stomp on the fluffkyries-they were, after all, not even two feet high-but before he could get started they all rose into the air. Shiny wings had sprung out of the back of their armor, glimmering like iridescent bird wings.

They rose up and flew, almost faster than the eye could see, at the Dursleys. With a thwack, Vernon's head flew off and crashed into the wall, then, as it sat on the stairs, it began to sing:

"Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright, round yon Virgin Mother and Child, holy Infant so tender and mild," in a high, reedy voice, rather like a cricket. Vernon's body began to do a Mexican hat dance, flapping its arms and wobbling all over the living room.

Petunia lost her head next, thanks to the wildly swinging axe of Inga or Olga, Harry couldn't tell which. It fell to the floor, spouting blood in a gaudy fountain all over the clean furniture, and began to sing, in a low, bass rumble quite unlike Petunia's usual shrill snappishness:

"I ain't got no home, no place to roam, I ain't got a home, No place to roam," interspersing the lines with croaks.

Dudley was carried off with a pop by Ingrid and Erika and never seen again, though there was a rumor floating around Trondheim about a manatee savaging the fishing boats and wailing about chocolate.

All of a sudden, there was another pop and the front door burst open, admitting a wizard wearing purple robes with stars and moons. "What in Merlin's name is going-"

That was as far as he got, because Ingrid and Erika returned with another tiny pop and landed in his beard. "Albus Dumbledore, kjaere venn," Ingrid cooed intimately, to the astonishment of the revered Headmaster, who gaped rather stupidly, "it is time you too faced judgment for your actions!"

Erika waved her axe, but instead of chopping through the white beard, it began to come alive. It whispered in his ears, and wrapped around his throat. "du ser ut som om du trenger en klem, you look like you need a hug," it whispered in a thick, fuzzy voice. Dumbledore's face went purple before it released him. He began to raise his wand, but it was snatched instantly out of his hand by one of the twins, who handed it to Harry.

"No! For the greater good, I must have that wand! Harry is-" Dumbledore began, but was cut off by his beard, which was now writing _"I am the Dark Lord Lemon Drop"_ in hairy letters over his face.

Harry couldn't help it. He began to laugh. He collapsed on the kitchen chair where he'd moved to when he was let out of his cupboard, looked at the head of Uncle Vernon, which was now singing _ Ave Maria_ from its perched on the stairs, to his body, which was doing an energetic tango on the entertainment center, to the head of Aunt Petunia, which was now singing _American Pie,_ to Dumbledore, who was frantically wrestling with his beard, and began to howl with laughter. Else buzzed over and settled in his lap, being careful not to knock him In the head with her axe.

"You are free now, Harry," she said in her lilting accent. "We cannot stay long in this realm, but you can always call on the Fluffkyries to protect you in times of need. We protect the innocent and the defenseless, and we have decided that you are worthy of us."

She snapped her fingers and a dozen baby unicorns appeared in the living room, whinnying musically. One of them looked up at Harry and said, "Oi, mate, you wouldn't 'appen to 'ave any happles, would yeh?"

Another snap of the fingers and they were gone.

"We protect the fluffiness and cuteness in the world," said Ingrid, who was now standing on top of Dumbledore's head. Dumbledore's hair was now having a wrestling match with his beard and they were shouting Norwegian insults back and forth. His face was getting purple again as they tugged on each other.

"So if ever you have need of us, just call one of our names," said Erika, who was now poking Aunt Petunia in her bony rump and making her whinny from her neck stump.

"And we will find you wherever you may be," sang out Kari, who was shredding Petunia's curtains with her axe and laughing. The curtain shreds were dancing by themselves and singing Norwegian folk songs.

"The twins, Inga and Olga, had disappeared into a barrel of coffee beans which had appeared suddenly on the coffee table. Grinding sounds could be heard from its depths, accompanied by loud giggles. Coffee grounds were flying everywhere. Aunt Petunia's head looked horrified at all the mess, even as it wobbled on the floor, singing _Clementine._

"On that note, we must go," said Else sadly from Harry's lap, reaching up to caress his face. But remember, we are never far away!"

And with a loud pop, the six Fluffkyries disappeared, leaving behind a scene of complete devastation. Vernon and Petunia's heads reattached themselves and stop singing and dancing/grazing. Dumbledore found himself on a deserted moor without any memory of how he came to be there, nor of how he lost his wand. Dudley, however, continued to be a manatee.

Harry kept the wand and from that point on his family never dared mistreat him. All he had to do was mention the word fluff and they would go white and forget whatever it was they were going to shout at him for.

Harry did call upon the Fluffkyries once more ten years later. The orgy that followed made even the thousand year old Hogwarts castle blush. But that is a story for another time.


	15. Malleus Maleficarum

Malleus Maleficarum

By Opopanax

A/N: This is a very rushed little story, I know. But I thought it was fun anyway.

The _Malleus Maleficarum_ was a treatise published a long time ago talking about ways to discover and prosecute witches. That should give you a vague idea on what this story is about.

* * *

1: Preparations

He was nearly ready.

Harry Potter rushed feverishly back and forth between worktables, stirring a bubbling cauldron here, adding a pinch of powders to a bowl there, chopping ingredients=all for the last potion that he would ever make.

Harry had holed up here after his friends had abandoned him on that ill-fated Horcrux hunt. He was in the last place anyone would expect him to be: Number Four, Privet Drive. Down in the basement, which Vernon had finished as a recreation room over Harry's sixth year. He smiled as he imagined what Vernon's reaction would be if he saw what freaky uses his billiard table was being put to.

After his friends had left him, Harry had sunk into a pit of angsty despair for a while. Here he was, Harry James Potter, indifferent student, lousy at just about everything except catching a little golden ball, and he was expected to go up against Tom Riddle, who had done nothing throughout his life but study and learn to be the most powerful dark lord in a few hundred years. What the fuck could he, Harry, do against him?

Then he pulled himself out of his funk. Agonizing over it wouldn't do much good. It was time to play to his strengths, whatever those were.

After asking her for permission, he placed a glamour on Hedwig (he had turned her loose the day before that seven Potters fiasco) and sent her to Griphook, who agreed to meet him in a park, where they conducted a spot of business. The goblins weren't too happy with the state of the British wizarding world. Cut down on their business, since nobody wanted to venture out to the bank.

After receiving a bundle of cash (Gringotts didn't have debit cards yet) Harry opened up a checking account at a bank in London. He discarded the tent and went on into the Muggle world. Got his hair styled and new colored contacts. Visited a plastic surgeon and had the scar removed, though it did nothing for the Voldemort-induced headaches. The scar was only the physical manifestation; the connection, however, was still there.

After all that, he was no longer recognizable as Harry James Potter. Which meant he could sneak around in the wizarding world as he pleased.

His first mission was to buy a wireless, which he used to keep up with happenings. It was used mostly to spit out Voldemort propaganda, like the Nazi Party had done with the radio back in the day, but the basic gist was that Voldemort and his toadies had taken over magical Britain. Harry himself had been dubbed Undesirable Number One; he had seen a poster with that designation and his picture hanging on many shop walls. Harry hung around the Leaky Cauldron, listening to the gossip as well. It appeared that the Weasleys were being carefully monitored. Ron had returned to Hogwarts, but of Hermione Granger, there was no word. Perhaps she had fled the country to be with her parents. Perhaps she had been captured. Though the likelihood of that was slim; if Hermione Granger, greatest friend of Harry Potter had been captured it would be trumpeted everywhere. Maybe she was being pumped full of Veritaserum and questioned on everything she knew.

Harry found himself sweating slightly every time he considered the latter possibility. Hermione knew everything about what had happened over the past few years. She knew about the Horcruxes. And she knew about harry, what he was like, what he might do. It was lucky that Harry had decided to move into the Muggle world. He stood little chance of being found there.

Yet he was still sure they hadn't done that yet either. If word about the Horcruxes had gotten out, Voldemort would be furious, furious beyond all levels of fury that he had attained before, and Harry would know about it.

Nevertheless, even though they had abandoned him, Harry was worried about his friends. And he still had no idea whatsoever what to do about the Horcruxes, or how he could end Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters, even if he did manage to destroy those artifacts. His situation was pretty nye hopeless.

As he sat through a news report in his hotel room about Bovine spongiform encephalopathy, he had the germ of an idea. And as he thought through it, it made sense.

He didn't have the knowledge to confront Voldemort, or even confront a lower level Death Eater. He had barely managed to stay alive in that ill-fated battle at the Department of Mysteries, surviving through a combination of good luck and the fact that the Death Eaters were ordered not to harm him until they had the prophecy. All he'd done was run around until help arrived. Soon as one Death Eater got stunned, one of his colleagues would revive him and they would be back to throwing lethal curses around.

Then, even after that harsh wake up call in the Department of Mysteries, what'd he done in sixth year? Mooned around over Ginny and obsessed over Malfoy. Did nothing to better himself, learned no new magics, in spite of what Dumbledore had told him. At sixteen Voldemort was making Horcruxes, Dumbledore was doing things that nobody had ever seen before, his dad was becoming and Animagus. Harry was doing nothing. He was weak, pathetic, useless in a fight. He would be killed easily. So he had to come up with something to level the playing field. Or... or take the playing field out of existence.

2: The Softly Simmering Cauldron

After that fateful night, Harry moved back to Privet Drive. He had things to do and he couldn't be racketing up hotel bills forever.

The street looked the same, tidy front gardens and gleaming cars and boring, bland uniformity everywhere. A real Stepford neighborhood.

Harry set up small spells on the windows to make it so that nobody would give the place a second look, then set about transforming the basement into his personal laboratory.

Things hadn't improved for the wizarding world. Harry had been studying for a year and had watched, dismayed, as the world went to hell in a handbasket. A handbasket embroidered with a Dark Mark. Muggle-borns were being rounded up by something called the Muggle-born Registration Commission, because it was believed that they had stolen magical powers from purebloods. It was nothing more than a thinly veiled genocide attempt, however. The person in charge of this commission was-who else? Dolores Jane Umbridge.

Harry really hoped Hermione got the hell out of the country. Although knowing her, she probably wouldn't. She would probably start something like the Society for the Promotion of Muggle Welfare, except you couldn't really pronounce that in a fun way. He could almost hear Ron trying to make up new acronyms.

Harry himself was still designated Undesirable Number One, and had a two hundred thousand Galleon price tag on his head. Except nobody knew what he looked like now. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he had run away. He had heard whispers about it on his occasional forays into Diagon Alley. "Yeah what I heard, Harry Potter left…" "if he gave up, what chance do we have…" and more cuttingly: "That coward Potter, did you hear? He ran away…"

Hearing tales of besieged Muggle-borns and the other new draconian laws weighed heavily on his heart, but he couldn't save everyone. He had to keep doing what he was doing, because it was the only chance for him to win. If he stepped in to prevent immediate suffering, he would be possibly killed and or captured, thus allowing suffering to occur on a much greater scale. Was this how Dumbledore had felt, working for his greater good?

Yet, these tales also made him angry. Even with the Death Eaters controlling the Ministry, the magical population still outnumbered them, and each and every one of them carried a deadly weapon. Yet they all crouched, terrified, behind a symbol: himself. And they did nothing, allowing the stupid fucking Death Eaters to rampage unchecked. No resistance, no fighting, nothing at all. They just went on whispering snidely about how he was a coward for not saving them. The only pockets of resistance he knew about was at Hogwarts, were Neville and the rest of the DA were at least trying to do something about the Carrows and Snape. Yet even their resistance was half-hearted; if they really wanted rid of them, they should be killing them not just being passive.

All of this coalesced into a fierce resolve to follow through on his chosen course of action. He had raided Grimmauld Place, learned what he could from the books there, then decided to leave Britain for a while, via Heathro.

Almost a year later, he had learned more about potions than just about anyone else alive. He had traveled to India and China, to the middle east and Africa. He had learned more about potions and their ingredients than Snape could ever dream of. He had studied chemistry and other Muggle medical sciences, and he had built the potion he was now working feverishly to complete. The Malleus Maleficarum Draught. His Opus Omega. Final task.

Stirring a cauldron counter clockwise with his left hand and sprinkling salt in a circle with his right, Harry began to chant in an old Celtic tongue, calling upon the blessings of the gods and goddesses. What he was about to do was far beyond an ordinary potion. It called upon the higher powers themselves, and if he did not have their blessing in this, he would meet a very messy end.

The green gunk in the cauldron he was stirring turned a violent, poisonous blue, purple smoke wafting up from it to vanish through the runes he had put on the ceiling to deal with the fumes.

There was an electrical feeling of gathering in the air. The fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose stiffly. Pages in the books he had left open on tables on the other side of the room began to riffle by them selves with lazy flapping sounds. The fire beneath the cauldrons began to die, and a cold wind, redolent of roses and sulfur, blew through the steaming basement.

Then, there was a loud bang, like a gunshot. The wind blew a final time, sending empty jars and books crashing to the floor. The fire beneath the cauldron died with a hiss and the liquid within turned clearer than the clearest mountain stream. It had worked. The Malleus Maleficarum Draught was ready.

There was barely a cup full of the liquid. A whole year's worth of research and travel, condensed into a bit of liquid that looked like ordinary water.

Yet this liquid, this Malleus Maleficarum Draught, was more deadly than the deadliest basilisk venom. And it was the only answer to the problems Harry saw in the wizarding world.

Things had not improved in the year he was gone. His name was spat with almost as much venom as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He was a coward, a rat deserting a sinking ship.

Ron and Hermione had been killed six months ago. Hermione had tried sneaking into the Burrow to visit Ron on Christmas holidays and was caught. They put up one hell of a fight but were eventually taken down via the Killing Curse. According to sources, they had died cursing his name. It made him sob. Just once. Then he worked even harder.

And now, he was done. All his work culminated in this tiny amount of liquid. And they all deserved it, for letting this happen.

Harry poured the small amount of liquid left in the cauldron through a pipette into a plain Muggle test tube, where a fine blue powder was already resting. He swirled the tube and watched the powder dissolve into the clear liquid. And he smiled. He was ready.

3: Opus Omega

Harry's idea was simple. Since he couldn't save the wizarding world, he would have to destroy it instead. It had brought him almost nothing but heartache, pain and loss. None of them were doing anything to save themselves from Voldemort and his Death Eaters; they were just rolling over and playing dead. All of them were relying on a boy who hadn't even completed his magical education to save them. Letting children do their dirty work. Letting innocents get slaughtered because they were too cowardly to fight for themselves.

And if by some miracle Voldemort was defeated by him, Harry had no doubt whatsoever that he would either (A) be tossed into Azkaban for murder, (B) be tossed into Azkaban and labeled the new dark lord, or (c) raised as some kind of poster boy for the light side. But there was no way he could defeat Voldemort. He just wasn't good enough. And he didn't want any of those fates to befall him.

So, he had flailed around for a solution and come up empty, until that one night in the hotel room, when he had seen a news report about Bovine spongiform encephalopathy, or Mad Cow Disease in the vernacular. Whole herds of cattle had to be slaughtered to prevent the disease spreading, and that was what gave him the idea.

So he built the potion. Learned about proteins and vectors and prions and all kinds of esoterica. Now, it was time for his baby to go out into the world.

The first casualties were reported over the wireless a week later. A dozen wizards had come down with something that looked like the flu that no potion could touch. As they got sicker and sicker, they seemed to get older, hair turning white and faces lining, until, when they died, they simply dissolved like milkweed puffs.

And then, as the weeks passed and more and more wizards were dying of this inexplicable illness, terror greater than any caused by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters began to sweep the land. A month later, only a handful of witches and wizards remained alive, barely four hundred out of the sixty odd thousand in the British Isles.

And then Harry Potter spoke out.

In a letter that went out in the last issue of the Daily Prophet to ever be printed, he denounced them.

_Dear wizarding world,_

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."_

_You all thought that we would meet in some kind of epic final battle to decide who wins, who loses, who lives, who dies. But That was never going to happen. You people are disgusting, and you deserved what happened to you._

_Voldemort and his Death Eaters never would have come to power if you hadn't allowed it. Your unbelievably smug and superior attitude and your inherent belief in your own infallibility was a perfect breeding ground for Voldemort to grow in._

_I could go on forever about the wrongs you've done, but I suspect that the editor won't last much longer. You called upon me to save you. Well, your salvation is at hand, and he will destroy you. It's all for the greater good._

_I have developed a potion which I call the Malleus Maleficarum Draught. It basically destroys any living magic it comes in contact with. I combined this with a virus culture to help it spread. I then spread it in fine droplets all over the Leaky Cauldron via a Muggle aerosol can. Power he knows not indeed. All I now have to do is watch my little potion destroy the wizarding world._

_For doing nothing to save yourselves, for crouching behind the skirts of an inexperienced boy, and most of all for letting this come about in the first place, I condemn you. May you reap exactly what you sowed in the afterlife._

_Signed,_

_Harry James Potter_

_The Destroyer of Worlds_

The wizard once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle cursed weakly as he tried to throw the paper across the room. He was dying, and he didn't understand it. And it was all because of that Potter brat.

He had no Death Eaters left now, none at all. He was surviving now on the last remaining threads of his magic, and even those were fizzling out one by one. His magically conjured body was falling apart rapidly; already he was burshing bits of skin off his hands like old dry paint. He tried picking up his wand to do something, anything, and his fingers fell off with dull snaps.

"You will die, Potter!" he screamed through the magical connection he shared with his nemesis, which was also fizzling out slowly but surely.

"Yeah, but I'll take you with me," came the very faint response. "See you on the other side, Tom old boy."

And with a final wheeze, Voldemort's body crumbled to dust. The last remaining shred of his soul tried to escape, but was also devoured by the Malleus Maleficarum, which traveled down the links to all the remaining Horcruxes, since they too were alive and magical. Including one Harry James Potter.

In about a month and a half, not one single witch or wizard was alive in the British isles. It would be a very long time indeed before another one was born, almost four hundred years, in fact. The virus Harry Potter created died out at that time and eventually new wizards were born. They found the old places like Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, and through old books and newspapers, learned the mistakes their forebears had made. The Malleus Maleficarum Draught was designed only to target living magic and thus all the old places were still standing, since none of them were alive.

It took almost a thousand years, but the wizarding world was once again flourishing. And if anyone tried to become a Dark Lord, they were shown once again what happened the last time anyone had tried it. All was well.


	16. More Snapshots

More Snapshots

By Opopanax

A/N: Because the first set was so much fun.

* * *

1: A Different Drum

Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw that she was smiling, the very last thing he felt like doing.

"Brilliant," said Hermione. "This isn't magic - it's logic - a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."

As Harry stared at the table with the various shaped bottles on it, something that had been niggling at the back of his mind came forth.

"Hold it, Hermione," he said sharply, jerking the paper out of her hand.

"Harry? What's the matter?"

"Don't you think," said Harry, pacing around the room, "That this has all been just a little too convenient?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's like these obstacles were designed with us in mind. There's Devil's Snare-that could've been either you or Neville since he's a herbology genius. Then there's the flying keys-obviously mine; star seeker and all. Then there's the chess set, that's obviously Ron. And I bet you anything you could solve this puzzle in about a minute."

Hermione looked sheepish. "Yeah, it's that bottle there, it'll take you through the flames ahead, and this one will take you back."

Harry nodded. "There's only enough in that bottle for one of us, and it's more than likely Voldemort through there. There's almost nothing we can do against him, honestly how stupid could we be? So let's go back and get help."

Hermione looked conflicted, so Harry gave her another push. "We've been puppets dancing to somebody else's tune, Hermione. Given just enough info to tantalize us into wanting to solve the mystery, and here we are. I don't like dancing unless I can hear the tune, so let's go back and get help."

Hermione gave a sigh, cool logic winning out against her Gryffindor side. "All right, Harry, you win. But if V-Voldemort gets the stone, I'm blaming you."

So they went back through the flames, revived Ron and, after a little convincing, drug him back to Gryffindor Tower. Dumbledore ended up having to confront Quirrell himself, very disappointed that his little pawns weren't doing what they were supposed to.

Harry didn't end up spending three days in the hospital wing, and as a result Gryffindor won the Quidditch match. All was forgiven and the Gryffindors were talking to him again. Dumbledore, however, didn't end up awarding a vast amount of points at the end of year feast and Slytherin won the cup.

2: Sealed with A Pudding

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear.

Aunt Petunia's masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

"No," croaked Harry. "Please … they'll kill me. …"

"Harry Potter must say he's not going back to school -"

"Dobby … please …"

"Say it, sir -"

Harry was trembling all over. If that pudding droppped, he would get beaten, blamed for doing magic out of school and probably locked away for the rest of the summer. He had a vivid image of being fed through a cat flap in the door.

On the other hand, if he stayed away from Hogwarts, he would be safe from whatever evil plot might be happening there. He had already been in a number of life threatening situations, and if he stayed away, no more would his life be in danger.

"Okay, Dobby, you win," said Harry. "I swear I won't go back to HOgwarts willingly."

"Oh thank you Harry Potter," Dobby whispered, easing the pudding back into place. "You will be safe now."

And with a loud crack, that was thankfully drowned out by the music from the next room, the elf vanished.

Harry went back upstairs and threw himself on his bed, finding his friends letters where Dobby had left them. He decided to tell the Headmaster what had transpired here.

As it happened, Dumbledore ended up getting the letter a few days late due to being out of the country on ICW business. He ended up taking Harry personally to Diagon Alley, where he witnessed the brawl between Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley. Because his glasses were enchanted to see magical objects, he spotted the diary for what it was as Lucius slipped it into Ginny Weasley's tranfiguration book. A quick Summoning Charm later and he had it in hand.

Dumbledore got around the magical contract Harry made by stunning Harry out of nowhere and portkeying him to the school.

Dobby ended up getting killed by the Malfoys on accident around Christmas time, when he went against orders, thus ending the magical contract. Harry did not have to face a basilisk that year, nor did he meet the young Tom Riddle. Dumbledore used a spell on the diary to find all the other Horcruxes, but died due to the curse on the ring in the Gaunt shack.

Arthur Weasley never entered the _Daily Prophet_ Grand Prize Galleon Draw in the chaos after Dumbledore's death. Sirius Black never escaped and died during Harry's third year. Peter Pettigrew never went to find Voldemort, and eventually the undestroyed soul containers all disintegrated, causing the shade to disappear. All was relatively well.

3: Dancing Queen

Professor McGonagall called above the noise, "Potter - a word, if you please."

Assuming this had something to do with his headless rubber haddock, Harry proceeded gloomily to the teacher's desk. Professor McGonagall waited until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, "Potter, the champions and their partners-"

"What partners?" said Harry.

Professor McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as though she thought he was trying to be funny.

"Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter," she said coldly. "Your dance partners."

"Ah," said Harry. "Let me guess, we have to open the ball?"

"Correct. So be sure you find yourself a partner," said Professor McGonagall, dismissing him.

Harry turned and left the classroom, a wide grin on his face. This was going to be so much fun.

Unbeknownst to just about everyone, Harry had been studying in secret for the past four years. He was not at all the ignorant Gryffindor most thought of him as.

When Hagrid had come to him on his eleventh birthday and told him he was a wizard, a massive quantity of excitement had filled him. If he was a wizard, he was going to be the best one he could be.

Unfortunately, he had quickly come to realize that he couldn't let his true capabilities be known; there were too many perceptions of him and he would be under constant scrutiny. So he decided to hide in plain sight, using Ron Weasley as his scholastic gauge.

Fast forward to the Triwizard Tournament. Here was the perfect opportunity to be seen studying: Harry was up against contestants three years older than he was, and if he wanted a fair chance he would have to step away from Weasley's level of scholastic achievement.

He had read up on the tournament after his name came out and the Yule Ball wasn't a surprise to him. He did not, however, wish to attend the event with any of the vapid idiotic fan girls attending Hogwarts, nor did he want to go with Hermione; Krum had his eye on her and he seemed like an all right bloke.

Then he got the idea.

Harry smirked evilly as he headed down the hall. The stodgy old headmasters wouldn't know what hit them.

# # #

Harry had to smile as the day of the Yule Ball dawned. Both he and Hermione were keeping secret the identity of their ball dates. Harry of course had overheard Krum asking her, but found it amusing to watch Ron try and jerk the guy's name out of Hermione at unexpected times, trying to catch her off guard.

Ron was also doing this to Harry. It clearly irked him a great deal that neither one of them was confiding in him anymore, and he would storm off in high temper whenever he failed to get an answer out of either of them.

"Ready for the ball, Hermione?" Harry asked as he went down for breakfast.

"As ready as I can be," Hermione replied absently over a thick tome. She too had been pestering Harry over who his date was, but at least wasn't acting as childish as Ron, contenting herself with indignant huffs and disappointed looks.

"Can't wait to see your gown, bet you'll be generating stiffied all night," Harry said, leering at Hermione and licking his lips.

"Harry!" Hermione squawked, brandishing the tome at him and turning redder than a Weasley. "That's disgusting!"

Harry roared with laughter and tousled her bushy curls. "Your face!" he gasped out, laughing even more as she shot him a withering glare. "See you in a little while."

# # #

"Are you ready?"

"I think so, Harry," she said, enunciating carefully. "It's going to take some getting used to, but I think I can handle it."

"You're doing great," said Harry, patting her heavily muscled arm. "I wasn't sure you could, but you're smarter than I gave you credit for."

The girl huffed and turned her back. "I'm smarter than you, Harry," she said haughtily. "Don't you forget it either."

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry said, affecting the humble tones of a supplicant. "You're truly my better, Ma'am."

The girl turned and smiled at him. "That's right," she said, raising her rather beaklike nose high In the air. "Now, where's my gown?"

# # #

Harry stood in the entrance hall waiting for his date. Krum, Hermione, Fleur, Davies, Cedric and Cho were already there. Professor McGonagall was sending him cold looks, as though he were delaying things on purpose.

Just when it looked as though she was about to say something, she looked beyond Harry and, for only the second time in living memory, displayed shock on her stern face.

Harry turned and smiled.

Coming down the stairs, a little haltingly but with no less regality, was a girl. She was of average hight, with blond, almost white hair, feathering around her face. She had yellow eyes, like Madam Hooch's, thin lips and a beaky nose.

She was wearing a snow white gown that fell off her heavily muscled shoulders and arms, displaying a hint of prodigious cleavage and sweeping to the floor elegantly.

"May I introduce," Harry said, gesturing grandly at his date, who took his arm, "Hedwig the Owl."

Harry had been reading about Animagus transformations the previous year, and had been hit with a brainwave: Why couldn't the opposite be true? Why couldn't you turn an animal, especially a magical one, into a human?

So he had worked with Hedwig all the previous summer (after the Dobby fiasco he figured a way to break the Trace) and, by the start of this year, she had been able to walk as well as any human girl. Her big arms and shoulders were a result of her wings; she was freakishly strong as a human. From hanging around humans so much, and because she was a magically imbued post owl, teaching her to speak wasn't that hard. It was walking and operating on two legs that was the real challenge.

Harry and Hedwig made a huge splash all over the front page of the Daily Prophet the next day-even the story of Hagrid's ancestry got pushed to the second page. He received many letters calling him a cheat and telling him that he was a halfblood upstart besmirching wizarding traditions. Harry ignored them all, and ignored, too, Ron Weasley telling him the same thing.

The rest of the tournament happened the same, so we'll draw things to a close.

4: Long Train Running

Harry was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten.

Then he got it. If you walked through a brick wall to get to Diagon Alley, mightn't you have to do the same thing here at the train station? Maybe the wall was just pretending to be one; you couldn't have wizards brandishing wands in the middle of the station. So maybe you just had to walk right through the wall.

_If this doesn't work, I'm going to look like the idiot of the century,_ Harry thought, heading cautiously for the barrier.

Sure enough, he passed right through the wall. Using a basic levitation charm, he got his trunk into a compartment. He never met the Weasleys in the station, and got sorted into Slytherin where he should be. And a whole universe turned on its head.

5: My Father's Eyes

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.

"Don't push it," he muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."

Harry and Ron finished up their potions and set about cleaning up their area. "You go on a head, I want to talk to Snape," said Harry when the bell rang.

"Better you than me," said Ron, fleeing out of the dungeon with the rest of the first years, leaving behind only Harry and Snape.

"What do you want, Potter," Snape sneered, looking up to see who was still there.

"To find out what you have against me, when I haven't even heard of you until last night," said Harry boldly.

Snape rocked back a bit on his heels, but rallied quickly. "You need to realize that not everyone sees you as the pampered prince that you are, Potter," he snarled. "Swelled as your ego undoubtedly is, it will do you little good in this class."

"Sir," Harry said, "I have no idea how you could know I'm like when you haven't met me until today, but let me set you straight. I had no idea I was a wizard until my birthday. I was raised believing my parents died in a car crash, drunk. I lived in a cupboard until the first Hogwarts letter came, and I didn't even know my name wasn't Freak or Boy until I was five. So you can throw all this Boy-Who-Lived nonsense out the window."

Harry kept his gaze squarely on Snape's. He felt a light … something probing at his thoughts, but sensed no malice in it, so let it read his truthfulness.

Snape, meanwhile, was rattled. The dour potions master had been certain the Potter brat would be just as arrogant as his father, waited on hand and foot in the Muggle world, basking in his tales of his defeat of the Dark Lord.

Yet here he was, telling him differently, and he just didn't know what to make of it. There were Lily's big green eyes staring out of the face of James Potter in miniature, and he didn't know what to do.

He let none of his inner conflict show on his face, however, and said, "Very well, Mr. Potter. I shall consider what you've said. Now, get out of here."

Harry stared at Snape for one last moment, nodded, turned and left. It was the best he could do.

Snape also did the best he could: He ignored Harry. He didn't adopt him, nor did he turn into a mento or father figure. Indifference was the best he could do.

6: I Touch Myself

"We're going to use the only means of transport left to us, the only ones the Trace can't detect, because we don't need to cast spells to use them: brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid's motorbike."

"We're going to what?"

"Yeah," growled Moody, "there are going to be seven of us under Polyjuice as you, and we're going to fly out of here."

Harry laughed. "That's the stupidest plan I've ever heard of. You know what I should've done is gotten under my invisibility cloak and gotten in the trunk of Uncle Vernon's car. We can still do that, though; one of you just call a cab and I'll get in back under my cloak. The Death Eaters will know that you cant Floo, Portkey or Apparate, so they'll be watching the skies, but they won't be watching the road."

They all looked at each other, a little chagrined. "But what about us? We're all here already." asked Mr. Weasley.

"That's easy. Dobby! Kreacher! Winky!"

Three pops later, the entire crew was at Hogwarts, with Hedwig. Ron and Hermione stayed behind, with Hermione calling the cab. It came and they climbed in, Harry under his cloak, and went to London, where they flooed from the Leaky Cauldron.

No battle in the sky. NO dead Moody. No dead Hedwig. Seems even Harry's sense of logica disappears in the wizarding world.

7: All Along the Watchtower

"Avada Kedavra!"

A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape's wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry's scream of horror never left him; silent and unmoving, he was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.

With the death of the caster, Harry was suddenly free. Realizing in a split second that he really didn't stand much of a chance in a face to face confrontation, he rapidly cast a silencing charm on himself and screamed: "Accio Snape's feet!" from behind it.

Snape was yanked off his feet neat as you please, landing flat on his face and sliding along the floor extremely fast, leaving a trail of blood in his wake from his broken nose. Harry sent a Disarming Charm at him as he flew past, and cast a Blasting Curse with both wands at the back of Malfoy's head as he disappeared down the stairs, causing bits of gray matter and bone to splatter everywhere.

The other Death Eaters had already run down the stairs, leaving just Harry and Snape behind.

Snape was looking very dazed as he lay on the floor, blood still leaking from under him. Faintly, under the buzz of the rage in his brain, Harry heard an old memory: "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken…" before squashing it. Deciding now wasn't the time for speeches, Harry sent another Blasting Curse, this one also at Snape's head.

So Harry never got to see those memories. He did put together the fact that he might be a Horcrux, when the locket hurt his head after it opened. A quick trip to the goblins and it was taken care of, almost painlessly. At the same time, Voldemort died, because he had been living on Harry's blood which further sustained the Horcrux. All was well.

8: Let's Work Together

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," said Harry. He was liking the boy less and less every second.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage-lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," said Harry coldly.

"Do you?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy.

"Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"Sure, they were British human beings," said Harry, snickering slightly.

9: See you Later Alligator

Fred looked around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd.

"If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley - Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes," he said in a loud voice. "Our new premises!"

Just like that, a plan was born, fully formed and beautiful in Harry's mind. Here was a way to get rid of Umbridge, and it wouldn't fall back to him.

After the twins had made their spectacular exit, Harry sent Dobby ahead with a message requesting one of their Portable Swamps, which item was also returned with Dobby. Harry didn't tell the twins what he was up to; that way they had plausible deniability. And finally, after practicing a few transfiguration spells, he was ready.

Dolores Umbridge was running ragged after a week. The school had descended into barely controlled chaos. Students were leaving her classes in droves; the swamp upstairs was still there; Dungbombs were being let off in the corridor with monotonous regularity-in short the school was in active rebellion against her.

Only after midnight could she find any peace, and it was three in the morning as Umbridge trudged wearily into her office for a last cup of tea.

Picking up the teapot triggered the lifting of a Disillusionment Charm and Umbridge was suddenly sinking into a swamp. This swamp was far different than the one upstairs though.

The walls of her office disappeared and she was surrounded by flying hordes of mosquitoes, buzzing angrily, flying into her eyes, swooping into her screaming mouth and buzzing hungrily in her ears.

She oepened her mouth to scream and instantly swallowed a wriggling mess of gnats and mosquitoes, looking more like an apoplectic toad than ever, had there been anyone to see.

Then, something bit off her lower legs with surgical neatness, causing her to fall face first into the bubbling ooze. The mud crackled and popped before her eyes, releasing noxious bubbles of gas as the brown lips of the swamp closed over her head. And of Dolores Umbridge, nothing was ever heard of again.

Suspicion didn't fall upon Harry, however, due to the fact that her office was thoroughly cleaned after she died. It appeared as though she just ran away. Which was fine with Harry.

Harry remembered the package Sirius gave him, and when he received the vision, checked its authenticity by using the mirror. Dumbledore died in the Ministry atrium because Fawkes had just suffered a burning day, a fact which Dumbledore forgot. Voldemort was seen by Aurors and the Minister, and before Fudge could clamp down on the information it had spread all over the Ministry.

Harry was portkeyed off the Hogwarts Express at the end of term and killed by Lucius Malfoy. Voldemort reigned supreme, at least until all his soul fragments died.

10: Perfect Drug

"We won!" yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!"

Harry looked around; there was Ginny, rabid Fan girl No. 1 herself running toward him. She had a hard, rather creepy look on her face as she leaped at him.

Harry jumped aside, sending Ginny crashing to the floor. "Stay away from me, potiongirl," he sneered, heading for his real girlfriend.

There was a silence behind him, and Harry waited for it…

"Potter!" screamed Ron. "How dare you do that to my sister!"

Harry kept going until he was standing by his girlfriend. Turning and throwing an arm across her shoulders, he turned and sneered at Ron and Ginny, the latter of whom was standing there glaring at him with fury in her eyes.

"I dare," Harry said into the silence, "because your creepy stalker sister has been using potions on me all damn year, Ronnieboy.

"I first caught on when we came across her snogging with Dean over there," Harry continued. "I got jealous. I never got jealous; it was beaten out of me at the Dursleys. So I went to Madam Pomfrey and she sorted me out. It took some doing, but she agreed to let me handle Stalkergirl over there. Aurors should be coming in right about-"

The portrait hole opened, admitting Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks.

"-now," Harry finished.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley, you are under arrest for the use of mind altering substances against the lord of an Ancient and Noble House," Shacklebolt intoned gravely. "You will come with us for questioning."

Harry grinned broadly and turned to kiss his girlfriend. "That just leaves you and me, love," he said, brushing a lock of shiny black hair behind an ear.

Parvati smiled back and leaned into him. "Good job, Harry. I'm proud of you for letting the authorities handle it, instead of doing things yourself."

"Look at Ron over there," Harry said, pointing at the redhead, who was imitating a goldfish. "Think he was in on the plan?"

"No, he's too simple minded to keep a secret like that," Parvati replied. "Enough on the gingers, let's go for a walk."

And so they did, leaving behind a shocked common room, and a few boys who vowed to make appointments for the hospital wing.

* * *

A/N: Because every author must do a potions scene; I never get tired of those.

The idea for a human Hedwig I got from grenouille7777's story _More Than Familiar_ (4882425.)


	17. Doctor Granger's First Day

Doctor Granger's First Day

By Opopanax

A/n: This is the first chapter of the story I started to write before _Black Serendipity._ I found it languishing in my fragments folder and decided to stick it up here. It is unedited as is the case with most of the items in this box.

No psychiatrists were harmed in the writing of this story. At least not much.

# # #

31 August, 2004

London

The GreenbriarInstitute for the Criminally Insane, located south of the Thames in London, was a dark, forbidding structure plonked down in the middle of more modern, eye-pleasing architecture. It featured barred windows on all the floors, a perimeter of razor wire, and large, concrete barriers to deter car bombers. There was even a perimeter of razor wire on the roof. Visitors were required to check in at an entrance gate manned by a surly security guard. Upon admittance, visitors were issued an ID card which was used to scan them into the facility. Their card was then tracked through the security system to make sure nobody went where they weren't supposed to go.

Twenty-five year old Hermione Granger cursed inwardly as yet another snarl of traffic blocked her progress. She was already late for her first day as an intern. She had specifically set out from her flat in Bromley two hours early, just so she could avoid such a thing. Damn it.

Hermione swerved around a bicycle messenger going the wrong way, before finally she was in the clear. She pulled into the carpark at Greenbriar and swept her waist-length, wavy hair into a somewhat manageable bun before grabbing her bag and climbing out into the humidity.

There was an extremely bored looking mid-thirties receptionist sitting at the front desk, chewing her thumbnail and reading something on her computer screen.

"Can I help you?" She asked as Hermione banged in through the heavy metal front door.

"I'm hermion Granger. I have a meeting with Dr Marcus for today."

"Have a seat over there and I'll find out if he can see you," the receptionist said, not even bothering to look at Hermione.

With a small huff of annoyance at the receptionist, Hermione settled back into one of the uncomfortable institutional plastic chairs and flipped once again through the packet of paperwork new staff members were issued upon joining the hospital.

She was only half way through it when there was a soft chime from the door to her right. Looking up, she saw an cosmopolitan fellow wearing a three piece pinstripe suit and carrying a briefcase. His greying hair was slicked back and he was wearing round gold-framed glasses and a quietly elegant Breguet watch on his wrist. He looked like a bank executive, not like a doctor.

"Miss Granger?" The bureaucrat asked, strolling over to her and holding out his hand. "I'm Dr Marcus, chief of psychiatry and your staff sponsor."

She stuffed her paperwork back into her back and rose, shaking the man's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Dr Marcus."

"Have you been here before?" He asked her.

"No. I only spoke with Dr Harold by phone."

"You must be something, if you were talking directly to the head administrator," he said with a smile. "Come then. I'll give you a brief tour before we go to my office."

They approached the first internal security checkpoint. Hermione was issued an intern's badge, which she clipped to her blouse. Then it was on into the hospital proper.

"We have six floors here," Marcus said as he strode off down the corridor toward the lift, Hermione hustling to keep up. "Here is the administration offices and central security. Second floor is archives and a small medical unit.. Level three houses my office, therapy rooms, the rec yard, and a small cafeteria. And third through sixth are patient wings. High security patients are on the top floor."

They entered the lift and Marcus held up three fingers for the camera. The lift rose up and Hermione noticed that it didn't have a control panel. The only thing visible was a stop button.

"That's right," Marcus said, following the direction of her glance. "The security station controls the lifts here. That was a security measure put in place after one of our most dangerous inmates tried to escape last year."

They got off on the third floor and were facing a security checkpoint identical to that which they had just left. Marcus waved and, after swiping his ID card through the slot, they were passed through.

They walked down a carpeted corridor to the very last door on the right. Inside was a small office, with only a metal desk, a few framed degrees on the ego wall, and a bookcase stuffed with textsbooks on psychology, criminal justice and other mental health literature. There were two battered swivel chairs in front and behind the desk, and Hermione and Marcus took them.

Marcus rolled open the top left drawer. Pulled out a buff-coloured file and spread it out on his desk. Started running his finger lightly over the sheets of paper inside as he flipped them with deliberate slowness. Hermione did her best not to fidget.

"Let's see. Says here you went to Edinburgh University after graduating from a top private school in Glasgow. You then switched to Oxford are now working on your degree in forensic psychiatry. What I want to know is, what brings you down here? There are hospitals closer to Oxford you could intern at."

"My parents live in Keston Park. I don't get home often."

Marcus nodded and tapped his fingers on the file. "It says here that you are actually adopted, originally from Ireland. Tell me about that."

Hermione toyed with the hem of her blouse. She didn't like talking about this.

"Is this relevant?"

"Absolutely. I need to know my own staff's psyche before I will let them near my patients."

"I don't know who my birth parents are. I was put in the foster care system until I was eight, and then a couple of dentists named Granger adopted me."

"There was some sort of scandal at your last foster home, correct?"

"Yes."

"One of the older children raped you?"

Hermione felt her face getting hot. "Do we have to discuss this?"

"Yes we do."

She took a deep breath. "If you must know—yes. A fourteen year old boy named Jason. He got caught before he could do it a second time."

Were you put under the care of a psychiatrist?"

"Until I was seventeen. It happened. I'm over it. I suppose it did influence my choice of career, if that is where this is leading."

"Date much?"

"You're also interested in my social life?"

"Early sexual trauma often leads to problems later in life. Again, I just like to know who I'm working with."

"I have no aversion to sex, if you're asking that. I'm not too fond of nosy men, however."

"This is not a halfway house, Intern Granger. You will need to develop thicker skin than that if you intend to work here, or in other similar facilities. Many of the men under our care have built a career preying on young, fresh girls like you."

Hermione took a deep breath. _Quit acting like a jumpy cat in a room full of rocking chairs._ "I understand and apologise, Doctor."

"I have a special patient in mind for you. But before I introduce him to you, I need to be absolutely certain that you are the right one for the job."

"Try me," Hermione challenged.

Marcus smiled—just a tiny smile—and swapped files. The one he pulled out of his drawer was much thicker—almost a telephone directory.

"I brought this patient with me, from Crowthorn. He had been put there when he was nine, but the hospital closed down last year, so he was moved to this facility. I have been the one overseeing his care since his admittance, and so it was decided that it would be less traumatic for all involved if I moved with him."

"Nine?" Hermione was amazed.

"This is a very disturbed individual, Intern Granger. He is borderline sociopathic, definitely psychopathic, and schizophrenic. He has constructed an elaborate delusional geography for himself, and has a messiah complex. He is cunning, manipulative, and always, always, trying to find a way to escape. He is certainly not ready for entrance back into society and will probably always remain in an institutional environment."

"Who is he?" Hermione asked, a little shaken that she would be given such a hardcore patient on her first day.

Marcus spun the file so that it was facing her. imblazened across the front was:

Patient No. 3194-1990

Broadmoor Hospital

Potter, Harry James

"Harry Potter," she mused. "Don't think I know the name. What admitted him to the hospital?"

"He killed his relatives. By all accounts, they were abusive, neglectful and not at all suitable parents. He apparently was dumped there at a year old and they kept him in a cupboard under the stairs, while his cousin had two bedrooms."

"That's terrible," Hermione said, eyes widening.

"Yes indeed. So one day, he snaps and kills all three of them. Blood everywhere, severed bodyparts—the whole bit. Maintains, of course, that he's innocent, that he was framed. Says he woke up with the knife in his hand."

"Any truth to that? I mean, he was only nine."

"Nope. Neighbor saw him through the window going at it. She was the one who called it in. Anyhow, he was taken to the St Brutus's Center for Criminal Boys, where he tried to kill another inmate, before finally getting sent to Broadmoor."

"What happened then?"

Nothing right away. He seemed to be responding well to therapy, although he still claimed that he didn't kill anyone, in spite of the evidence. I mean, we had forensic evidence up the wazoo against him. Couldn't be anyone else, right? Still, he was very convincing, until September First, 1991."

"Hermione repressed with great difficulty the urge to start in surprise. "What was special about that date?"

"That was the first time he tried to escape. I don't know how he managed it, but he killed two guards with his bare hands. Big bruisers, former rugby players. And this scrawny little eleven-year-old broke their necks as easy as can be. He was almost to the door outside before we got him with a tranq dart and put him into our version of solitary confinement."

"When we were going to the lift, you said the security measure of having them controlled remotely was put in place because of one of the most dangerous patients. I'm assuming that the patient was this Potter fellow?"

"Correct. He made another try last year. Somehow got one of the nurses to help him. They were out in the carpark before they were spotted and detained. The nurse got fired, of course, and Harry was back in solitary, where he remains still."

Hermione had a creeping suspicion that she knew what was happening here. "What did this nurse say when questioned?"

"Not much. Claimed that she didn't know what she was doing. We think he somehow manipulated her into thinking that helping him escape was her own idea. So. It is as I say; we need to be absolutely sure any staff we assign to work with this man are very self-aware and not easily manipulated."

"Do you want me to meet him today?"

"Yes. No time like the present."

Marcus rose and gestured for Hermione to follow. They strode down the carpeted hallway, the only sound being the soft whisper of their shoes and low, soothing music piped in through invisible speakers. Hermione felt a growing knot of apprehension in her belly. If what she suspected was true…

The took the lift up to floor six and were let out near the central nursing station, where a small knot of people were gathered, presumably on break. There was another security guard here, who Marcus introduced as Dominick Abrams. He was a tall man in his mid-forties with soft eyes that nevertheless shown with confidence and toughness.

Abrams led them through the central station toward a large pane of one-way glass looking in on the solitary room. And Hermione got her first glimpse of her new patient.

Harry Potter was sitting on the floor, in a lotus position. His black hair was short, almost bristles. He was wearing a one piece coverall and soft slippers. The physique was very well developed, presumably from pushups and situps. His head was down, facing the floor, so Hermione did not catch much of a glimpse of his face.

"He's pretty cute," she found herself saying.

"So was Ted Bundy," Marcus said. "I'll watch you from here. Remember—always be on your guard with this man. He will no doubt try and impress and charm you; he will try to get the upper hand against you. When I think you've had enough, I will send in a nurse to give him his medication."

Hermione bristled at the implication that she couldn't take care of herself, but bit back the caustic remark on the tip of her tongue. It was time to put her damne ego away. It had already caused her enough troubles in life.

Abrams pulled out another key card, this one bright green. He opened up the solitary room door and Hermione stepped through it, feeling the sensation of butterflies in her stomach. The door swooshed shut behind her and the locked clicked. It was a heavy lock and the click echoed all over the room.

The solitary room was basically a jail cell. There was a concrete bunk with a thin mattress pad on top covered by an equally thin blanket and plastic pillow. The floor was carpeted with heavy duty industrial carpet. A sink/toilet combination was behind a half wall next to the door. There was no window except the one-way viewing glass. Looking up, Hermione also spotted a camera lense peeking discretely out from a corner of the ceiling.

Harry Potter looked up from where he was sitting in the middle of the floor. Hermione was struck by the intense green of his eyes. They were not unfriendly, but very calculating. Hermione sat in front of him and held out a hand.

"I'm Hermione Granger."

Potter's eyes did not waver as he lightly took her hand. "Hermione. Hermione Granger." He said her name slowly, emphasising each syllable, as though committing it to memory. Hermione felt another shifting knot of apprehension. Something about him…

"They're convinced I'm quite mad here, you know," he said suddenly.

"Are you?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't really know you well enough to say."

For the first time, he smiled—just a slight, upward tilt of the lips. "Of course you don't. But you must have read the file. Do you think I killed my relatives?"

He will try and get the upper hand, Marcus had said. It was time for Hermione to take control back.

"What I think is not relevant, Harry. We're here to help you. Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

"Feisty one, aren't you? Let me guess—tops in your class, bookworm, teachers' pet. Any of those sound familiar?"

"What leads you to that conclusion?" Hermione did her best not to flare up at being called a teacher's pet again. That was just what Harry wanted. He was testing her.

"You're probably not more than twenty-five. You're pretty, but not exactly gorgeous. You're interning as a psychiatrist, which is historically a male-dominated field, which suggests that you are trying to prove yourself. And you took me on, even though I'm supposedly their most dangerous patient. Logic suggests you did similar things all throughout your years of schooling, trying to be the best. Ergo, teachers' pet was probably what you heard most often.."

Hermione was about to respond to his blistering (if accurate) summation of her character with some choice words of her own, Marcus be damned, when she paused. Harry's right hand—the one farthest from the camera—was making strange gestures. His index finger was tracing patterns on the floor. At first she had thought it was just random nervous ticks, but she had been watching it out of the corner of her eye. Her outrage at the summation Harry had just given of her had caused her to stop concentrating on what his hand was doing, which allowed the pattern to register.

Harry was writing something on the floor with his finger.

_Hogwarts_

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and he gave only the barest shake of his head: don't say anything.

"Very impressive," she said. "Now why don't you turn that impressive intellect to yourself and tell me—"

"Do you know why Dr Marcus assigned me to you?"

"Why don't you tell me."

Harry smiled again. "I like you, Hermione. Do you know why?"

"No clue."

She was doing her best to follow the conversation while at the same time watching his finger write on the floor without being obvious about it.

_Voldemort framed me I'm innocent_

"It's because your mind has not yet been poisoned by institutional thinking. You're still fresh, still willing to listen. You and I will probably be very good friends."

Before Hermione could answer, the door opened and a nurse came in with a cup of water and a small paper cup with a white pill in it. "Time for your medication, Mr Potter," she said in a bright voice.

Harry took the cup and obediently popped the pill in his mouth.

Hermione rose on shaky legs and headed for the door. "I'll see you Monday, Harry."

"I'm looking forward to it. Make sure you do your research," Harry said, giving her a meaningful glance.

Hermione didn't answer. She barely acknowledged Marcus and Abrams, who were still standing by the viewing glass, and headed for her car.

Back in the solitary cell, Harry crumpled the tiny white pill cup in his hand. He opened his mouth so the nurse could inspect it with a penlight and tongue depressor to make sure that he actually took the medication. After she left, he carefully use his index finger to slide the pill out of the empty cup into his palm. Then moving by increments, he slid it into his shoe for disposal in the toilet later.

For the first time in many years, Harry had hope that somebody would get him out of here. Get him out of here before he was forced to kill anyone else. And when he was on the brain-altering medication they forced him to take, his defenses were weakened, making such forcing easier.

He had recognised Granger instantly for what she was. Something in her eyes. A certain shine that only magic users possessed. It had been all he could do to keepfrom his expression the joy of finding a fellow magic user miraculously there in front of him. And now she would be working to find out the real truth. She struck him as that type—the type to dig relentlessly until she got answers. He only hoped such digging wouldn't get her killed.

Harry Potter sat on his bunk in his lonely cell, listening to the sounds of the mad all around him. And for the first time since he was a small child in his cupboard, he prayed.

# # #

Meanwhile, out in the carpark, Hermione was sitting behind the wheel of her Renault, shaken and confused. What was a wizard doing in a Muggle institute for the criminally insane. And put there somehow by Voldemort? Could it be true?

Hermione closed her eyes and thought back over the past few years, trying to fit this new piece of the puzzle into the tapestry of information.

Voldemort had taken over the wizarding world in 1981. The ministry had collapsed just after Halloween, and the new regime was in place.

What was a real surprise was the form that regime took. Many of the real hard core blood supremacists had wanted to round up all the Muggle-borns and half bloods and exterminate them, but Voldemort had quelled all of them with brutal efficiency. He was smart enough to realise that if they did that, the magical world was doomed to extinction.

Instead of extermination, Muggle-borns were fitted with a modified Fidelius Charm after their introduction to the wizarding world. They could not speak of magic with anyone save another magic user, or someone who also knew of the magical world's existence. If they tried, the only thing that came out was something completely unrelated. After the quick and brutal takedown of the former magical government, many wizards waited for the metaphorical axe to fall. Instead, the magical world entered into a somewhat uneasy prosperous state. Opposition was still crushed brutally, but there were no more offensives.

Dumbledore was kept on as headmaster of Hogwarts. He was stripped of all his other titles and his chocolate frog card was canceled. He continued to try and subvert Voldemort's rule, but fewer people were listening to him. After all, they had food to eat, jobs were plentiful, and, as long as you didn't actively speakup against Voldemort, you were left alone. Why would they bother disrupting their lives to listen to an old man who should've been put to pasture long ago?

Muggle-borns and halfbloods were still not exactly accepted (at Hogwarts you still had to listen to the world mudblood), but if they tried hard enough, they could find jobs in the wizarding world. They were not going to advance very much, but it was still possible. Many, however, feeling that their talents were being put to little good use, left the wizarding world and went back into the Muggle. They were not stopped, but the modified Fidelius was left in place.

Hermione Granger was one such Muggle-born. After an incident where she was beaten severely for outshining pure-bloods on their O.W.L. tests, she made the decision to go into medicine after Hogwarts. This choice was met with enthusiasm by her adoptive parents, who were uneasily reminded of Hitler's regime when hearing tales of the magical world.

Hermione shook herself and started the car. She needed to find answers.

# # #

Several hours later found Hermione Granger in a familiar position: sitting at a table in a library with books and reprints spread around her. She was looking through back issues of magazines and newspapers for any mention of the Potters. Finally, in a back issue of the "Daily Prophet" from October of 1980, she found it. The Potters were killed, leaving their young son orphaned. For some reason, he never got his Hogwarts letter, even though he was the son of a very powerful witch and wizard. Why?

Thinking about the possible answers to that question made Hermione very uneasy. Something fishy was going on. Based on her knowledge of Death Eater tactics, entire families were killed; they didn't show any mercy just because one of them happened to be an infant. So why was Harry spared?

Or was he spared at all?

Was he instead sentenced to something else?

Hermione felt a chill slide down her back. Something else was going on-and Harry Potter was right in the middle of it.

# # #

End notes: The thought process which begets new stories rarely interests anyone save aspiring writers, so I'll keep this short.

You see all the stories about how Harry dies before his time and gets sent back with his memories intact and has to stick it to Dumbledore and Voldemort and find a harem or his soulmate or whatever. What if Voldemort got the same opportunity? What might he do?

Then I saw this passage in book five:

"Why did he do it, then?" said Harry, who felt numb and cold. "Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then—"

Then I had this convoluted idea. Suppose Voldemort got sent back in time to just after he sent the Killing Curse at Harry? Whoever sent him back did him the favor of having him knocked unconscious rather than being discorporated, but a Horcrux was still in Harry's scar.

He then left quickly before Hagrid got there, and Harry was sent away to the Dursleys. Then, nine years later, he sneaked up to Privet Drive, possessed Harry, killed his relatives, and Harry was tucked neatly away into an insane asylum, out of the way. He also blocked Harry's magic so he wouldn't get a Hogwarts letter.

That was as far as I got. I thought it might've been an interesting story, because I've never seen it before, but I ran into problems and decided to put the other one up instead. So this idea got crammed in here, where it might or might not grow.


	18. The Greater Good

The Greater Good

(Or The One and the Many)

By Opopanax

A/n: I found this in my fragments folder. I decided to throw a little polish on this one and cram it in here.

This is an idea I have not seen done yet. Although, since I have probably only read about six hundred fics in all my years on the site, that doesn't mean a lot.

Many, many authors have speculated on why Albus Dumbledore, being fully conversant with the prophecy and to whom it applied, would put Harry Potter in the Muggle world, isolated and unaware of his role later in life. Why make him unaware of magic when it would play such a pivotal role? Why drop him, unprepared and ignorant, into a whole new world, one which he was destined to save?

Maybe Dumbledore is an evil chess master, manipulating the world for some nebulous vision which only he can see. Maybe he was hoping Harry would die defeating the forces of evil so Dumbledore himself could take the credits. Or maybe he was hoping Harry would die so he could steal the Potter fortune.

Or … Or maybe,, there was another reason entirely for Dumbledore's actions.

# # #

Hogwarts Castle

Halloween, 1981, just before midnight

Albus Dumbledore was about to leave his office for Godric's Hollow when the explosion came.

Not fifteen minutes before, he had received intelligence that his dear friends and allies, James and Lily Potter, had been attacked and killed in their supposedly safe home. He had just picked up a quill to serve as a portkey, when there was a weird influx of energy. Every hair on his body—and there was a lot of it—suddenly shot straight out, making him look like an agitated sheepdog. He was flung off his feet and landed hard on the floor. Many of his little silver instruments joined him there and shattered into pieces. One of the windows exploded outward. The temperature in the office rose sharply until it felt like an oven, and then immediately dropped back to normal.

Dumbledore lay on the floor, dazed and shaken, for a brief moment. Then with an agility belying his years, he got up and performed a quick inventory. He appeared to be hole, with no major injuries except a bruised ego.

He had just risen to his feet when he became suddenly aware of another person in the office.

"Hello, Albus," said the intruder. He was twirling Dumbledore's wand lazily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Who are you?" Dumbledore asked, edging his fingers toward the backup wand he kept in his left sleeve.

"No need for your wand," the intruder replied, and, to Dumbledore's surprise, lay Dumbledore's wand on the desk before seating himself in the visitor's chair. "May I have one of your lemon drops?"

"Of … of course," Dumbledore murmured, seating himself shakily behind his desk and taking one of the candies himself.

The stranger smiled and occupied himself with unwrapping the sweet. For a moment there was no sound in the office but crinkling cellophane as the two wizards opened the candy.

Dumbledore took the brief moment of respite to study the stranger who had arrived so precipitously in his office. He appeared to be in his late thirties, sporting a mop of messy black hair, wearing Muggle-style jeans and a t-shirt. There was something familiar about this man, and it wasn't until he had lifted his head and the candle light caught his eyes that Dumbledore realised what it was.

"Harry Potter," he breathed.

"You always were a sharp one," Harry grinned. "Yes. I'm Harry Potter. From about forty years in the future."

"How? Time turners only go back eight hours."

"A very brilliant man by the name of Robert Doniger. He was a Muggle physicist, and he invented a way of time travel that could go to any point in history. The details don't matter, but it really isn't time travel per se. Instead, you're going to an alternate universe. The computer found a universe that was essentially the same as the one I lived in, and I came here. Because you needed to be warned."

"Warned about what?"

"You are planning to bring my younger self here to Hogwarts. You know that he is pivotal to defeating Voldemort and you want him to have every advantage he can get. So you're going to have him live here, and then send him to the Flamels for training once he hits five. He will then come to Hogwarts, where you will take him as your apprentice. Do I have it about right?"

"Yes ... something like that," Dumbledore stammered. "Harry—I mean, you—"

Harry chuckled. "Gets bloody confusing, doesn't it? Call me Mister Potter instead."

"Very well. Mister Potter, your younger self is at the moment being fetched by Hagrid. There are still Death Eaters at large and—"

"Yes yes. But you must not do this, Albus. It turned out very disastrously."

"In what way?"

"Have you ever taken up the sport of archery, Albus?"

"No. I am afraid I have not."

"How about playing an instrument?"

"Alas, music—a magic beyond all we do here—is not one of my talents either."

Mister Potter nodded. "Some people have amazing talents. They can hear a song just once and play it back, note for note. Or they can look at an instrument and come up with all new songs for it. They seem to have an instinctive feel for the music, and know through some kind of feeling what will sound good and what won't. Just like with archery, or using a rifle. They can pick up the weapon and feel the target, and hit it with amazing accuracy."

"I am sure. What has that to do with why I should not train Harry?"

"If you start telling them things, it can confuse them, make them fail. Like if you tell the musician of the mathematical relationship between notes and how their songs must follow certain rules, they will start writing songs based on what they think you want to hear, rather than what they feel. Or for the sniper or the archer. If you start telling them the humidity of the air, or that the bow has been left out at night, thus changing the draw, or how old the bowstring is; or that the rifle barrel has been previously fired and the barrel has been heated, they will start second guessing themselves and fumbling around.

"That kind of happened with me. I was indoctrinated with the rules of magic and how only such and such was possible, or that something I wanted to do hadn't been done before and was thus impossible. It severely crippled me, because I was trying to work within the rules I had been taught, rather than what my magic wanted to do."

"I … see. You are saying that you are instinctively able to do magic and don't necessarily need structured spells?"

"Yes. Of course, I didn't find this out until it was too late. I need for my younger self to be raised outside the magical world, so that he doesn't get polluted with preconceptions."

""But how will he be kept safe? Voldemort's supporters are still running around out there—and, as you know, many of them are as violent and terrible as he."

"Take him to Petunia Dursley's house. That will be the best place for him."

Dumbledore's eyes widened a bit. "I do not believe he will have … the best living environment there," he said carefully. "It was my understanding that Mrs Dursley was less than … accepting of her sister Lily's powers. Mightn't that be transferred to her son?"

"Most likely," Mister Potter said, a note of regret creeping into his voice. "But the Potters have no other living relatives, and you cannot keep him in an orphanage. Many of them are closing down, of late, and who knows what might happen to him."

"I do not like the idea of a young boy being subjected into what could possibly turn into an abusive situation," Dumbledore said, frowning. "I do not like the idea of playing God with someone's life like that, either."

"I know you don't," Mister Potter said, a grave note in his voice now. "But if he grows up in that house, he will learn self-reliance and cunning. He will learn to think outside the box to get what he wants. You see, that was one of Voldemort's greatest advantages. He, too, was raised outside the magical world and had an innate grasp of magic. He wanted something, and found a way to get it done, even if no one had done it before. And the prophecy says they will be equals. I really don't see any other way for Harry get the same advantage."

There was a bit of silence, broken only by the gentle snores from the portraits on the walls. Finally Dumbledore spoke.

"I suppose you are right," he said, his voice somber. "I will have Harry taken to Petunia Dursley. There are, now that I think about it, certain protections I can place there, so long as he calls that house home. Hagrid is collecting him, now, and I will have him kept here tomorrow while I arrange things."

Mister Potter smiled a sad smile. "I know you don't like it, Albus. I don't like it either. I stopped there on the way here, some five years down the line. It will not be a pleasant place at all, and I hate doing this to my younger self. If I might make a suggestion, try having Harry meet the Weasleys when he starts Hogwarts. Their mother is a bit overbearing in the future, but she just lost almost her entire family and it is somewhat understandable."

"I can do that. Perhaps a word to watch for him in King's Cross Station."

Mister Potter nodded, pleased. "The Weasleys can serve as his surrogate family in the magical world. Just remember. You cannot act too overtly in his life. Harry must ggrow up thinking that anything is possible with magic. You cannot try and hinder him with advanced training, because he will try and do what he thinks you want, rather than what is really needed. By all means, give him a standard Hogwarts education, which we both know is pretty much only the very basics. But nothing beyond that."

"I shall do as you ask," Dumbledore said, rising with a weary sigh. "I only hope you are correct in your assumptions, Mister Potter."

"I am, Albus. I promise," Mister Potter said. "And I think it is now time for me to return to my time. What there is left of it."

"What do you mean?" Dumbledore asked, worried.

"Didn't I tell you?" Mister Potter asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a ceramic square with a button on it. "Voldemort killed Harry Potter in almost every alternate world I visited before coming here."

Before Dumbledore could answer, a glowing metallic cage appeared in the middle of his office. Mister Potter stepped into it and promptly vanished, leaving behind a lingering scent of ozone and burnt carpet.

"Merciful Merlin," Dumbledore whispered, swaying on his feet. "I can't let that happen."

# # #

A day later, Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were sitting on the brick wall outside Number Four, Privet Drive. It was once again the dead of night. Dumbledore fished out his pocket watch.

"Hagrid's late," he said, studying the time piece. "I suppose it was he who told you I would be here?"

"Yes. Why on earth are we here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at Number four.

"Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future—there will be books written about Harry—every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?" It was the most pallatable reason he could think of for dumping the poor boy here, but nobody must know the real reason. Who would believe him anyway?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

And five minutes later, Hagird arrived on Sirius Black's motorcycle. After a teary goodbye, (and judicious casting of sleeping and warming charms), Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was left on a doorstep in Surrey. Because the consequences of not doing so were disastrous. For the greater good, one small boy must suffer to bring happiness to a great many.

"Good luck, Harry," Dumbledore said softly in the silent night, after Professor McGonagall and Hagrid had departed. Then, with a swish of his cloak, he set off back down Privet Drive. He wouldn't lay eyes on the boy for another ten years. And the universe tilted on its head.

End notes: Yes, only a fragment. I know it left a few loose ends *like the Sirius Black issue) but there's the basic idea. Something to think about, hmm?


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